


Over the Shoulder

by DarkBlue



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Bodyguard Romance, Eventual Smut, Except Not Actually, Fluff and Smut, Forced Proximity, Handcuffed Together, It's for work, M/M, Mild canon divergence, The work is keeping Dorian alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlue/pseuds/DarkBlue
Summary: When the Inquisitor discovers the Venatori groups are attempting to force Dorian back to his father for the blood ritual promised, she assigns an unwilling Dorian a bodyguard: the Iron Bull.
Relationships: Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 49
Kudos: 214
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mild canon divergence; what if blood magic could be used as compulsion? And what if Halward Pavus had some of Dorian's?

Skyhold_____________________________________

Dorian heard her long-legged stride before he saw her and hurriedly set down his book, turning from where he had been using the natural light of the window to read.

“Inquisitor,” he said politely, stopping her though it was obvious she had been about to breeze past him, her arms full of rags to give to Helisma, the tranquil research assistant.

“Just a second,” Adaar said quickly, smiling over her shoulder as she continued. “I’ll be right back.”

Disgruntled, Dorian turned back to his book. He was not used to waiting for other people. The Inquisitor was gone for more than a second; he heard the door slam and looked up, realizing she had nipped through to Vivienne’s balcony. He sighed.

 _You’re relatively new to the Inquisition_ , he reminded himself. _And you’re from Tevinter, and she’s a qunari. You can hardly expect her to warm to you right away._

His stomach turned at the nature of his request. Suppose she said no? He hadn’t even brought it up to Vivienne. He admired her greatly, and they were developing something like a soft acquaintance having grown up in similar lifestyles. There was absolutely no one else to complain to about the lack of nail care and the dearth of peppers in the bland Southern food.

He was having trouble concentrating on the book. The truth was he didn’t have very much to do, though he was aware there was a lot that needed doing. He felt certain that upstairs Leliana was digging through his background based on tidbits of information, waiting to evaluate whether he was trustworthy. Around him in the library, researchers bustled while he stood still, his fingers itching to help.

“Dorian,” said Adaar breathlessly, bringing herself up short from her jog with a small skip. “What can I do for you?”

Dorian smiled winningly, willing his voice to sound casual, instead of nervous. “Now that you're in charge, there's something I thought I'd bring up.”

“Oh?” Adaar cocked an eyebrow. She hadn’t wanted to be Inquisitor. She had insisted everyone would want Cassandra. But with the anchor attached to her hand, well…people were superstitious. Even if she did have swirling long horns capped in silver, she still cut a rather dashing silhouette in the clothes Vivienne had insisted she wear around Skyhold instead of her usual raggedy mercenary robes.

“Yes.” Dorian wished very much that Cassandra _had_ become the Inquisitor for this moment alone. Cassandra had no qualms about hunting mages. It felt distinctly awkward to ask it of Adaar, a hunted mage herself.

“There are Venatori mages out there, lurking in the wilderness.”

Adaar raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Dorian hurried to continue.

“This comes as no surprise to you, since you can't swing a dead cat without hitting one of Corypheus’ minions, but... these particular Venatori have additional significance to myself.”

“Oh?”

“For one, I know them personally.”

“You know them and you want us to…find your friends?”

Dorian winced. “Not exactly.”

Adaar’s olive grey face was neutral. “I see.”

“I would call them 'friends,' except that would imply I didn't want them dead. Which I do.”

Adaar waited.

Dorian took a deep breath and then delivered his request: “Since I have an idea of where they might be, I thought we could put our heads together and track them down.”

“So you’re saying, you have a group of people you know very well who you would like to kill.”

Dorian sighed. “I know how it sounds.”

Adaar shrugged. “I’ve been a merc long enough. Sometimes it’s like that.”

Dorian smiled in spite of himself. “Well if it helps, when we find them they will likely sneer something at you in Tevine, and you would be forced to kill them.”

Adaar rolled her eyes. “When hasn’t someone sneered something at me in Tevine?”

Dorian plowed on, hastily skirting the comment. It was impossible to apologize for an entire country that insisted on being pigheaded about everything from religion to customs.

“And if you kill them, that makes everyone happy - you for eliminating a potential threat, me for eliminating men and women too stupid and shortsighted to be permitted continued breathe. _They_ would be less happy, but who cares about them?”

Adaar half smiled.

“It’s up to you, my lady Inquisitor.”

The smile disappeared in a scowl, and Dorian feared he had laid it on too thick. He shrugged.

“I’ll talk to my small council about it.”

“I’ll be here.”

He watched Adaar pound up the stairs towards the spymaster. He knew she had reached the top when the cacophonous cawing of birds began. He sidled carefully towards the balcony, pretending to read. He didn’t catch the first part of their conversation until he had nonchalantly walked back and forth until he found where they were above him by sound, and leaned against the railing, book in hand, listening.

Leliana was speaking. “Let us look into this, carefully and quietly. We do not wish to alert the Venatori to our awareness of their existence.”

“But it’s possible?”

“More than possible. You can ask Josephine if you would like to pay for the information, but my spies can find it for free.”

“Or at the very least for what I’m already paying them,” said Adaar dryly.

Leliana tinkled her Nightingale laugh. “Cullen could also send Templars, if you prefer.”

Dorian was not immune to Adaar’s sudden cold: “No.”

He shivered. He and Adaar had one thing in common: Templars were an incomprehensible private militia, set out like dogs on a fox for mages like them.

He quickly withdrew to the window when he heard Adaar’s footsteps again. She didn’t even glance into his alcove as he passed, only swung around and kept trotting down towards Solas. A brief exchange with him, and the door banged open and briefly Dorian could hear the carpentry sounds of men on scaffolding in the Great Hall.

Well, at least he had asked. It would be best if he caught these ones before Adaar ever knew.

* * *

A week passed uneventfully. Dorian drifted from book to book, and even wandered out onto the balcony of Madame de Fer a few times. She had invited him to sit down to tea when he happened upon her in early afternoon, and Dorian had been more than delighted. Skyhold, crumbling ruin as it was, did not exactly lend itself to niceties. The next day Vivienne had two places set when Dorian mildly wandered by, and he had taken the seat gratefully, happy to have at least one planned aspect of his day and guaranteed intelligent conversation.

Vivienne was a master at both The Game and magic. Dorian found himself eagerly discussing nuanced magical theory, a subject not many people enjoyed. He openly told Vivienne about his graduate research, which she followed up with rational questions, walking through the dead ends they had run across in a few days what had taken Dorian and Alexius some years. She was coolly approving, and Dorian could recognize a mentor in his field. They began to exchange spells, slowly, cautiously, never quite casting it all the way lest they light the valuable rugs of her balcony ablaze. Never quite tipping their whole hand.

Dorian was just ducking back into the library, feeling vaguely guilty for not doing more, when Adaar saw him.

“Dorian!”

He froze, certain she would reprimand him for not being in his nominal workplace. Instead, she smiled.

“Your leads were effective. Leliana’s scouts found several locations where these Venatori could be hiding—advance camps, purpose unknown.”

“Oh,” said Dorian, mildly surprised. “That was very expedient. Thank you.”

“If you wish to deal with these mages yourself, I’m certain I could venture out with you.”

“I’d be pleased.”

“I have their locations on a map. There’s two camps in the Hinterlands. We can head there first.”

“When?”

“Is tomorrow too soon to start traveling?”

“Tomorrow?”

“It’ll still take time to get there.”

“Of course,” Dorian managed.

“Anyone you think we should bring?”

“Pardon?”

“Of the Inner Circle?”

Dorian flushed to be so included, and so consulted. “Vivienne would be an asset,” he managed, with the usual teasing bite to his tone.

“Done,” said Adaar, without hesitation. “And we’ll bring Bull too. Three mages and a heavy fighter. We should be able to take down a rival group. They won’t expect the greataxe.” She smiled grimly. “I’ve seen that before.”

Dorian felt a complaint burbling to his lips, but checked it. It wasn’t his place to protest who Adaar brought. And the mercenary captain was certainly civil enough, if watchful. Dorian only nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

The Hinterlands, Redcliffe Farm_____________________________________

“Dorian.”

“I see them,” Dorian said grimly.

He and Adaar had squirmed on their stomachs over a bluff, overlooking the shallow basin near the farm where Adaar had tried to recruit a horse master. 

“How many?” asked the Iron Bull, who had crept up on them so stealthily that Dorian jumped.

He refused to look at the qunari’s face in case he was grinning. “Hmmm. Six, I believe.”

He could recognize at least three of them over this distance, and would probably know all of them close up.

“Six seems an awful lot,” frowned Iron Bull.

“What do you mean?” The Inquisitor was wriggling backwards, and reluctantly Dorian also left their vantage place to scoot down to Vivienne, who would never do something so demeaning as crawl.

“I just mean…I don’t know. Hard to explain.” The mercenary captain shrugged, his leather shoulder holster clinking gently back in place.

“Try.”

“It’s a lot.”

“A lot?”

“A lot of mages for…dunno. Just a scouting party?”

“How many would you have sent?”

“Really no more than two. But three I guess if I was worried about the surrounding country. But look at it. It’s a farm. These are grasslands. Not even good hiding terrain like in other areas. Six? Dunno. Six just seems like a lot to me. Double the usual number.”

“So you don’t think it’s a scouting party?”

Dorian was growing uneasy. Why was the Iron Bull so perceptive? That wasn’t usual for a soldier. Big pointy stick. Enemy. Stab. Stab. Stab. That’s how it _usually_ was. Anyone with real intelligence was drafted as –

Right. Of course.

He had forgotten he was a spy. He wouldn’t forget again.

“So should we ask them?” he asked acerbically. “Oh hello Venatori. Are you here to prop up the plans of the dark Corypheus?”

They weren’t.

Adaar sighed. “No, of course not.”

“It’s just weird,” repeated Iron Bull, but then shrugged. “But I still think we can take ‘em. Even outnumbered.”

“They’re very fast,” Dorian warned. “They’re altogether very good.”

Vivienne was watching him. “And apart?”

“What?”

“Altogether good. Apart?”

Dorian smiled at her, his respect notching up. “Not as good.”

“Worse than you?”

“Oh yes,” he said, with no attempt to cover his vanity. “Definitely worse than me.”

Vivienne crinkled the corners of her eyes at him, her version of a smile. “Well then, I should be able to deal with them handily.”

The Iron Bull laughed under his breath.

Dorian prickled up but ignored the way Adaar was grinning at him. “Let’s go.”

They parted around the bluff as quietly as they were able. Dorian kept behind the others, letting the Iron Bull shadow his appearance for as long as possible. He knew it was impossible, of course. But perhaps they could get a few of them before –

A scream.

Vivienne had pulled a long spear of ice from the ground, piercing through a lower back and carving through a belly. The mage was scrabbling at it uselessly as her organs dripped onto the snow. She died with a whimper as Iron Bull turned a blue eye back towards Vivienne.

“Huh,” he said, his voice measured. “Nice.”

“They know we’re here,” Dorian said, his voice annoyed. “We can do that later.”

The fight was brief. In fact, towards the end, two of them were trying to run. One was felled by a bolt of lightning from Adaar. The last Dorian recognized. He was fumbling in his pocket for something and Dorian had a stomach-swooping suspicion of what it was. Just as Vivienne raised an ice wall, trapping him to the knees, Dorian felt a _jerk_ in the soft spot where his skull met his spine. Pain blinded him for a moment, then was over as quickly as it began. Bull had decapitated him in one clean swing.

Dorian stared in horrified fascination as the head rolled towards his feet. It had sandy blonde hair. Ragar. He wanted to feel justified, but all he felt was sad. Lexan would be devastated at his death.

He picked his way over to the body and stared down at the broken glass vial, a tiny drop of blood on Vivienne's conjured snow. Quickly, he ground it out with his boot heel and turned away.

“Did we do it?” panted Adaar. Her four-tailed auburn bun was wisping down around her ears. “Did we get them?”

“Oh yes,” said Dorian, who suddenly felt a relief so swamping he nearly went to his knees with it. “I approve.”

“Good,” Adaar smiled, swiping back at her hair ineffectually.

Vivienne tsked in the back of her throat at the motion.

“Let’s get back to camp. We can try to find the others in the morning.”

The Hinterlands, Hafter’s Woods_____________________________________

“See this? This is good cover,” said the Iron Bull, glancing around at the large boulders and pine trees. “Plenty of places for little buggers to hide.”

Dorian made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle, but came out rather flat. The mercenary captain cut an eye at him, which Dorian refused to see. The Iron Bull was always _noticing_ things. He had noticed the day before when Dorian twisted his ankle, even though Dorian had thought no one had seen. He had forced himself to walk without limping all day even as he sweated through pain. It had only been at night when the qunari had casually asked Adaar in earshot of Vivienne if she was any good at healing.

“Not very,” Adaar admitted. “Why?”

“Dorian’s ankle.”

Adaar turned, frowning, at Dorian.

“You’ve hurt it?” asked Vivienne calmly, kneeling on pine needles in her skintight legging and well cut robes as if it were a luxurious carpet. She reached for Dorian’s leg, which he had stretched out nonchalantly as possible.

“No!” Dorian jerked beneath her fingers.

Her dark eyes flew to his with something like understanding pity, and Dorian wanted to burn up in absolute mortification when he saw the Iron Bull turn away, as if in confirmation.

“I just mean,” he amended hastily. “It’s not bad.”

“Let me see.”

“You don’t have to-“

“My dear, you’re being a perfect ass.”

Dorian stopped. Vivienne had never called him _my dear_ , not even to insult him as she just had. Grumbling, he had unlaced his boot.

Neither woman did anything so mortifying as hiss when they saw how swollen and puffy it was under Vivienne’s gentle but freezing fingers. But they both glanced accusingly at him.

“What?” he snapped defensively.

“Next time, _tell_ me,” Adaar snapped back.

“If I had gotten to this earlier, it wouldn’t have been difficult at all." Vivienne twisted his foot, ignoring Dorian's gasp of pain. "Now you’re gone and swollen it up, which requires a whole secondary spell to bring down before I can even start the repairs.”

Dorian fumed silently, and the Iron Bull left to chop firewood.

“You know,” Vivienne said to Iron Bull when he returned. “You could have said something.”

The Iron Bull shrugged, cutting another sidelong glance at Dorian. “Wasn’t my place to say. He wanted to keep going.”

“Hmm,” said Vivienne critically. “Is this because of the Inquisitor?”

He frowned, obviously not expecting the line of questioning. “What?”

“Because she’s – as your people say – Tal-Vashoth?”

Adaar froze from where she had been rummaging through the tent sacking for pegs. The Iron Bull looked extremely uncomfortable, shifting his bulk in place.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You have _no problem whatsoever_ with following the type of person you swore to kill?”

The Iron Bull shrugged helplessly. “Circumstance.”

Adaar glanced down at her hands, clearly torn between hurt and anger. She chose the latter.

She rose smoothly from her crouch. She was taller than Dorian by four inches, but still smaller than the Iron Bull. “I was born outside the Qun. I didn’t _choose_ to be what I am.”

“I know.”

“I never knew any different.”

“I know.”

“And if I tried to join the Qun now, do you know what they’d do to me?”

The Iron Bull was silent, his lips white pressed together. Finally, he nodded.

“Death would be a mercy,” said Adaar quietly. “There are no free mages. So if you’re going to kill me –“

“I’m not.”

“Because you haven’t been ordered to. Yet.”

This time the Iron Bull was silent for much longer. 

“Right. Well. Fun as this is, we have to fight Venatori in the morning. Are we good?”

“Yeah,” said the Iron Bull calmly. “We’re good.”

“Good,” said Adaar, breathing out. “Because I need a bath. Vivienne?”

“In a moment, my dear. I’m just finishing the swelling spells.” She glared at Dorian. “And you will _not_ move while these are in place. They take an hour to work before I can heal the rest. Understand?”

Meekly, Dorian nodded, then wished immediately he wasn’t going to be left alone with the Iron Bull as he watched the two women leave for a nearby river.

The silence stretched as Bull walked quietly around camp, doing a dozen little tasks Dorian neither anticipated nor understood, but the mercenary captain seemed not to notice him. At first, Dorian was painfully on edge, aware of his every breath in the silence. Gradually, his shoulders relaxed, and he leaned more firmly on the tree he was propped against.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” It was the first question from the mercenary captain directly to Dorian…perhaps ever.

“About the ankle?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t seem important.”

“But you were hurt.”

“So?”

“So, wouldn’t you want them to slow down?”

“It still would have been an inconvenience to stop. They would have had to heal me on the spot. We would have lost daylight hiking and we needed to be in this part of the country by nightfall.”

“So you’re saying inconvenience outweighed the price of your own pain?”

Dorian frowned at him puzzled. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“It’s just…I don’t know.”

“Don’t know?”

“Not what I expected.”

“From me?”

“I guess.”

“Because I’m from Tevinter?”

“No.”

“A mage?”

“No.”

“A lord?”

“Are you really?”

“Yes, of course. Didn’t you know?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

The Iron Bull shrugged expansively. “I don’t know. Guess I read it wrong. I thought you’d be the first to complain about stuff while we’re out here.”

“Ah,” said Dorian lightly.

“But you and Viv haven’t said a peep.”

“She hates being called that.”

For the first time ever, the Iron Bull looked straight at Dorian and smiled. “I know.”

Dorian’s stomach fluttered. _Be quiet_ he told it grouchily. If anything was less plausible, it would be him actually _liking_ the big qunari.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” said Dorian indifferently.

“Liar.”

Dorian shrugged. 

The Iron Bull only shook his great head and settled in to sharpen his knives, leaving Dorian bored and skittish, listening for every tiny sound in the woods.

Because they weren’t at an official campsite, they all shared a tent, and Dorian tried not to twitch at the sound of breaking branches deep in the darkness. He felt something shift. The Iron Bull, sleeping head to toe with him, had stretched his leg in sleep so that it was pressing into Dorian.

Dorian froze.

He didn’t want Bull to wake because of his restlessness. Instead, he forced himself to stay still, rigid, and eventually to think of the weight as a comfort. When he woke the next morning, he was still lying stiff and straight, his hands folded over his chest like a corpse.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Adaar asked as Dorian tested his ankle.

He rolled his foot for her, showing off. “I’m good.”

Adaar only looked at him, and Dorian pretended that he and two other people didn’t know what she really meant.

“Let’s go,” he said instead. “We might be able to find them somewhere around here by midmorning.”

It took them longer than Dorian liked to find the Venatori. They found the first one crouching behind a tree, her pants around her legs.

She gasped when Dorian set the mine beneath her feet.

 _At least it was quick_ , he thought to himself grimly. Then, unbidden, _Poor Blisska._ They had been in the same mage circles once, learning magic side by side. Now she was sent on this fool’s errand and he had murdered her.

“Dorian!” called Adaar, and Dorian turned away from the scorchmark.

This time, he knew what he was looking for. It helped slightly he didn’t know Mas well. He was a medium sized, ordinary looking fellow, but he had a cruel streak that Dorian didn’t like. When he raised the glass vial in one fist, Dorian sent a wave of psychic damage so forceful Mas' nerve endings frayed, and he dropped it.

Dorian darted forward, ostensibly for the kill, but Vivienne took him down first.

Dorian cursed to himself, forcing himself to turn away and join the rest of the fight lest his true goal be obvious.

“That’s five,” said Adaar, wiping her brow. It had been long minutes since the last mage, but the sixth one wasn’t coming out of hiding.

Dorian felt a jerk in the soft spot at the base of his skull. Without warning, his legs jerked forward unsteadily. He glanced in panic at his companions, trying to warn them, to scream.

“There,” said Adaar, whirling around on the cloaked mage. She sent lightning through him in a huge torrent, and Dorian felt the compulsion fading. He sagged to his knees.

“Dorian?”

“I’m fine,” he managed. “Just…took more magic to kill them than I thought.”

“Here,” said Vivienne, handing him a lyrium flask. “I have extra.”

“Thanks,” said Dorian, and forced himself to drink it. He didn’t actually need it, but the sensation of his skin burning, being too tight, bursting open over swollen arms gave him some distraction from anything else.

He burned Mas to ash to siphon some of the excess.

“Hey!” said Adaar in annoyance. “We needed to search his pockets.”

“Sorry,” said Dorian, playing up the guilt. He could see the fire had melted even the glass of the vial into a puddle on the ground. Good.

“Come on, let’s search the rest of them.”

The Exalted Plains, Unadin Grotto_____________________________________

“Thanks,” said Dorian absently, taking the tea from whoever was handing it to him. He was quickly scanning through the book in front of him. At least on the road he had time to study and make detailed notes. Only one had been really helpful so far, but it helped pass the time and made him feel useful.

He glanced at the tin mug in his hand then paused. It was the wrong color.

“What’s in this?” he asked the air in general, and then noticed that only he and the Iron Bull were in the campsite with the scouts.

“Milk and honey.”

“What?”

“Milk and-“

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“Why did you put it in my tea?”

“That’s how you take it.”

“It is,” Dorian agreed faintly. A pause. “Did I tell you that?”

The Iron Bull smiled crookedly. “No.”

“And how did you –“

“I noticed.”

“You noticed.”

“Yeah. Is it too much?”

Dorian didn’t answer, only sipped. “No,” he said in surprise. He liked a very light splash of milk. “It’s…perfect.”

“Good.” Bull seemed inordinately pleased.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I like surprising you.”

“You’re a strange one.”

“So they tell me.”

They both stopped talking when Adaar came back, hauling an entire deer carcass over a shoulder.

“Boss, let me help.”

“I got it.”

“I’m a good skinner.”

“Then I’ll let you do it.” Adaar wrinkled her nose. “I hate that part.”

“The part between making it look like an animal and food?” Dorian guessed dryly.

Adaar flushed and then looked away. There had recently been an incident where she didn't want to squash a spider.

Dorian felt a prickling at the base of his skull.

“Hey-“ he began. His tongue stopped moving.

The Iron Bull glanced casually over his shoulder at Dorian, but as Dorian was doing nothing but sitting, he shrugged and carried the deer easily in one arm to the other side of camp where he could throw offal to the forest.

Dorian tried to get Adaar’s attention, but his fingers didn’t even twitch. He could feel the crackling of magic, sharp like frost in the air. He wanted to scream _get down!_

The bolt of energy was like blunt force. It collided with Adaar between her shoulder blades, sending her sprawling through the camp.

The scouts stood up, uncertain if she had just tripped. One went down silently with a bolt to his chest. The other managed to draw her knives, a loud and distinctive ring that made the Iron Bull turn around from his work and take in the scene with a quick practiced eye. He didn’t even bother to pick up his greataxe, only hefted the carving knife in his hand and with an overhead throw buried it to the hilt through the mage in the trees.

Immediately, Dorian felt all his muscles loosen and he scrambled to his feet, hoping his stunned moment of idiocy would go unnoticed. He lunged for his staff at his feet and stood up, turning in place and felt the prickly cold drip of someone else holding him by the back of the neck.

He froze.

“Dorian!” Bull shouted, vaulting towards the crumpled form of Adaar. “Go! You have to – “

A blizzard out of nowhere, the stinging needles of sleet sharp as miniature knives. They gouged the eyes of a screaming mage. Dorian managed a staggered step. Someone else grabbed it. He froze.

He stood helpless and stupefied as the Iron Bull and Vivienne faced off against the four mages. Dorian knew they were outmatched. He wanted to scream, but could only stand dumbly, his fingers clutching his staff, willing the mages behind the scrub not to think to use him to attack.

One of the mages stepped from the trees. Dorian didn’t recognize her. It didn’t matter either way. Almost instantly she pitched forward with an arrow through her eyesocket, and Dorian felt his muscles relax enough to look around, spotting Scout Harding halfway up a tree, her freckled face pale and set.

Another mage dove from the trees toward the dead one’s body. Dorian realized belatedly she must have had it. He sent a wave of fire to stop the leaping figure. He had his hood up, and vacillated uncertainly but clearly thought it was worth being burned for. He dove through the wall of flames, his fingers grabbing the vial from the burnt grass with a scream. He was less than a foot from Dorian now, and they stared at each other while Vivienne screamed at him.

Dorian was frozen, the back of his neck prickling. The hood fell back. Dorian wanted to groan but could do nothing but stare at Hakeb. Hakeb smiled slowly, even though Dorian could tell it hurt him, burns on his face red and angry against his medium brown skin.

Dorian felt his own nervous system light itself on fire. He wanted to scream. To do anything. Instead he only made a horrible strangled sound like a dying lamb and crumpled to the ground, twitching. He knew distantly he should be embarrassed, but instead all he could think about was Adaar. Whether she was dead. Whether he had failed that badly in his one and only request of her.

He should have told her. He should have told all of them why the Venatori were here.

Now he would writhe in agony and hope for death, knowing even so, Hakeb would keep him as his own all the way back to his father.

Dorian was aware he was having trouble breathing. An excess of saliva, choking him, his throat burning, his muscles rigid and sharp with pain. Agony was flowering down his back, his eyes were watering, rolling, his tongue thick, gagging. He could smell the burned flesh in front of him. Smell the fire near his face. If he could roll – just a few inches – he could end it. He could –

It was as if someone had snuffed a candle.

Dorian’s vision pitched into black. He could hear the wet meat sound of something behind hacked apart. He coughed a weak spittle into the ground and felt it spooling between his teeth. He wondered if it would be stringy with blood, then almost laughed. Of course not. This was a kind of pain that didn’t show.

Rough hands on his shoulders, turning him over, a bright sky bracketed against tree branches. No. Not branches.

The Iron Bull’s practiced blue eye roving over his face, then the hands and the large booted feet were gone. Presumably checking for more survivors.

Dorian wondered what would happen if there were none. If he and Bull reported back to Leliana with only Adaar’s corpse. Well, perhaps he could take a walk out of Skyhold’s cells before Leliana’s people got to him. And Vivienne. He had just begun to actually like her.

As if by his thoughts alone, Vivienne’s face hovered into his field of vision. Her eyes were drawn tight. Her full lips were chapped. She looked exhausted and angry. Yet her hands were gentle as she placed them to either side of Dorian’s head.

“No-“ he tried to say, but his jaw was still clenched and he could only grunt. Tried to shake his head, shake her off. He didn’t deserve to be healed. To be checked over. Save her strength for Adaar. Save –

Cold. Cold blossomed over both his jaws, trickling down his neck slowly, milk swirling in tea, easing some of the twitching pain. Suddenly, Dorian’s jaw sprung free, his teeth aching. He could feel the saliva running down the corners of his mouth as he dragged in a ragged, burbling breath.

“Is he?” That was Adaar’s voice, and Dorian’s eyes rolled, searching for her. She was alive?

“He seems to be more or less in one piece,” Vivienne replied, her voice so calm that Dorian knew he wasn’t the only one who heard she was a thread away from screaming.

“What happened?” Bull. “Some sort of seizure?”

Dorian tried to speak, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth. He rolled his eyes and blinked several times, trying to keep the world from spinning unpleasantly.

“Not exactly, but something like. He’ll likely be post-ictal.”

“Post what?”

“Ictal. It refers to the state just after a seizure. Accompanied by extreme dizziness, lack of fine motor control, slurred speech, the like.”

“Will he be okay?” Adaar’s voice again, urgently. “And how did they do it?”

“With this, I think,” said the Iron Bull, pulling something out of the grass.

Dorian felt Vivienne’s hands leave his head. Immediately the lower half of his body, which hadn’t been soothed, shot a spike of pain through him and he gasped, his knees jerking up over his stomach as it cramped.

“What is it?” Adaar asked, as the three of them stared at the glass vial in Vivienne’s hands. She was a silent a long moment, and Dorian closed his eyes, but quickly opened them when the spinning grew so bad he thought he might vomit. He wasn’t strong enough to turn on his side.

“A phylactery,” Vivienne said at last. “Though I don’t know why they would have one of Dorian.”

“A what?” Adaar was no classically trained mage. Dorian wished now that Vivienne wasn’t here. That almost any other companion would be preferable, agony be damned.

“A vial of a person’s blood,” Vivienne clarified, holding the glass up to the light. “Though this one only contains one drop pressed between glass.”

“Why do they have a drop of Dorian’s blood?” asked the Iron Bull pleasantly.

“Phylacteries are taken in the Circles,” said Vivienne, very quietly. “To track mages that escape.”

There was a thunderous silence. Dorian was panting in the grass, but he could feel Adaar’s mounting wrath.

 _“What_.”

“Templars and those who have knowledge can trace blood to blood.” Vivienne was remaining remarkably calm, but the entire conversation had the flavor of the eye of a hurricane, the wind strangely flat and heavy.

“Dorian didn’t grow up in the circles.” Adaar’s voice was very strained. “He grew up in Tevinter.”

“I suppose the practice is much the same.”

“And how many phylacteries do you usually make?”

“Usually? One. The vial itself. One drop of blood is…” a breath of hesitation. “Unusual.”

“Unusual how?”

“Well…it would take a great deal of finesse to…to work with it.”

“Ah,” said Adaar grimly. “Now we come to it. Blood magic?”

“It seems so, yes.”

“And they were using it to – what? Control Dorian?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” said the Iron Bull into the waiting silence.

Dorian tried to reach a hand up to pluck the glass from Vivienne’s fingers but when he had moved his elbow above his head his arm suddenly lost all functionality and fell on his chest. He closed his eyes as some of the rebound hit his face.

“What is it?” asked Adaar.

Dorian made a sound approximating words. It sounded like a baby’s gibberish and he grimaced against the pain in his stomach and tried again.

“Destroy…it…”

Vivienne did not need to be told twice. With an alacrity that made Dorian forever indebted to her, she crushed it between her hand and let the glass tinkle to the ground, which she burned with a silent spell.

“We need to get back to Skyhold, _now_ ,” Adaar said grimly. “I’ll tell the scouts to get the cart ready. They can bury the bodies and collect for Leliana.”

“I searched them already,” Bull said, “I can write a report as well.”

“Can you write in the cart?”

“I’m okay,” Dorian managed.

Everyone stopped talking to look at him. He pushed himself up to sitting and with a sudden frenetic burst of energy to standing. He took several rapid steps and his shins collided with a bench by the fire. He tipped over it, his arms not moving fast enough before hitting the ground.

“Is he okay?”

“Post-ictal,” sighed Vivienne. “He's blind in several parts of his vision."

Dorian realized that would explain the swirling blackness.

"And he lacks fine motor control needed for walking or moving with any coordination."

Dorian tried to protest by slithering to a sitting position, but only managed to pull the rest of his body over the bench into the grass.

"He needs to be watched as we get the cart ready.”

“I’ll get him,” volunteered Bull.

Dorian tried to protest, to say something, but strong arms were turning him surprisingly gently. Bull's horns again. An arm around his lower back and shoulders. Dorian braced himself but still tried to fight when he felt his body leave the ground.

Iron Bull grunted, but held on, and Dorian forced himself to be still. He couldn't remember the last time he had been picked up.

“I can walk,” he tried to say. It came out slurred, like he was very drunk. The world was spinning again, but when he tried to close his eyes it only worsened so that Dorian threw out a hand, trying for stable ground and finding only Bull’s smooth chest, warm from exertion.

Dorian shivered and didn’t fight when Bull laid him in the cart bed. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning, and kept them shut until the cart lurched forward. He dreamed of the Fade. Of demons standing around his head like mourners at a grave.

 _We can make it stop_ they chorused in eerie synchronization. _We can make_ him _stop._

Skyhold_____________________________________

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said, visibly startled at their late-night arrival. She had been working alone in her office, the fireplace offering the most light, second to a candle on her desk where she was writing. “Is everything alright?”

“No,” snapped Adaar. “Can we use this room please?”

Josephine's brown eyes flew wide for a second, then she regained her noble's composure. “Of course.”

“And get Leliana.”

“Of course.”

“Fuck, better wake Cullen. Just – the three of you come back. I want a small council meeting as soon as I’m done here.”

“Yes. Right away.”

Adaar rubbed her face with a hand then caught Josephine’s puffed sleeve as she made to thread her way through the grim-faced group.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice.

Dorian was standing somewhere behind the Iron Bull and he quickly glanced up at the new tapestry Josephine had made with the heraldic emblem Adaar had chosen. He would rather be anywhere than here. Well – almost anywhere.

“Are…” Josephine had paused, a butterfly on water, barely skimming the surface of Adaar’s world. “Are _you_ alright?”

Adaar gave her such a broken smile that Josephine’s face crumpled, and she turned and left the room without another word.

"Later," Adaar called after her, but the words barked on Josephine's heels, and Adaar sighed before turning her furious stare on a trying-to-be-inconspicuous Dorian. “Sit.”

Dorian meekly took one of the armchairs. Vivienne took the other, and Bull dragged Josephine’s wooden chair over, gesturing at Adaar. She ignored him to pace, and he sat, stretching out his bad knee with a grunt.

“I hate this,” muttered Adaar, more to herself. Then she rounded on Dorian and her face was neutrally calm. “I will only ask this once.”

There was a long pause, and unwillingly Dorian nodded for her to continue.

“Are you compromised?”

Dorian stared at her, his brain not processing. Finally, his brilliant mind came up with: “What?”

“Are. You. Compromised?”

“In what way?”

Adaar blew out an angry breath and gestured at Vivienne, who showed she was unhappy at being brought in by growing more reserved than ever.

“What the Inquisitor means is how many vials of your blood do they have?”

“And who has them,” added Adaar.

“And why,” added Bull, for good measure.

Dorian felt his face slowly begin to flush. He hadn’t wanted to explain. He hadn’t wanted to tell Adaar. It was far too early to try to…to…

“Fuck,” he said quietly.

Adaar looked genuinely horrified. “Fuck!”

“What does that mean?” asked the Iron Bull grimly. “That he can be…controlled? What will you do with him?"

Vivienne looked at the fire and didn’t answer, but it was answer enough.

“It’s not what you think,” Dorian said quickly. “I’m not – I’m not a spy, or an infiltrator, or –“

“I nearly died today,” said Adaar flatly. “If I hadn’t been a mage, I would have. But they don’t _see_ qunari as mages. They didn't know. It’s why I don’t let Josephine tell people.”

Dorian was silent. It was true that no one from Tevinter seeing an unbound qunari would ever think them a mage. _Saarebas_ were collared and drugged, like animals. Without the trimmings of the outfit, Adaar wasn’t visibly magical. She confined herself to light armored padded clothing, like a swordsman.

“And you did _nothing_ ,” Adaar snapped. “While I almost died.”

“I couldn’t.”

“That became obvious when you let Scout Wett die.”

“I –“ How to even begin to say how much he wanted to help. How sorry he was.

“Tell us about the phylactery,” said Vivienne mildly. The glaring lack of _my dear_ told Dorian the ice he skated on was thin indeed. How quickly he had fallen from her dubious graces.

He settled back in the chair, feeling his face flare up.

“We could have Leliana ask you,” Adaar said. “It would be less pleasant.”

“Boss,” said the Iron Bull, and Adaar whipped her head around hard enough for her dark red hair to slip from its carefully knotted bun.

“Don’t,” she warned him.

The Iron Bull subsided.

She turned back to Dorian. “Speak.”

Dorian put his face in his hands, then pushed them back along his hairline.

“They have something here. When an apprentice becomes a mage.” He glanced sidelong at Vivienne.

“A harrowing,” she supplied almost automatically.

“Are your phylacteries taken then?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “As children.”

Dorian paused, sharing Adaar’s appalled look, but forced himself to continue. “At our trials…we give a vial of blood for a phylactery, but not…not as a trace.”

“As what?”

“A blood oath, more like. When you become a magister, they give you the blood back, and you wear it around your neck as an ornament. A way to testify you’ve mastered magic.”

Vivienne’s expression was cool. “I see.”

“I gave a vial of blood when I was eighteen.”

“To who?” interrupted Iron Bull.

Dorian wished he would stop. He was too perceptive. Too quick to see. “To my father.”

“And they stole it from him?” asked Adaar, surprised.

The three others stared at her until she blanched beneath their defeat. “He…he sent them?”

“It’s considered…vulgar…to open a phylactery. It’s not sacred, you understand, but it’s not done. It’s sealed when you become a full fledged mage, and the seal being unbroken when you get it back…it’s a point of pride.”

“Why would he…” Adaar shook her head, clearly reorienting. “Why did he open it?”

“Well, those Venatori groups…they had a drop each.”

“Six Venatori?” said Bull skeptically. “I think one would be less obvious.”

“For what, precisely?” Vivienne asked crisply.

The Iron Bull looked confused. “To kill him.”

“Oh they aren’t _assassins_ ,” Dorian laughed. It didn’t sound like laughter. “There are six so if I try to cut my way out, there will be enough.”

The fire seemed very loud.

“And you know these people?” Vivienne’s voice was excruciatingly calm.

“Knew them. Yes.”

“Friends?”

“Classmates.”

“And why would they agree to this?”

“Money, of course. And prestige. Not many causes to venture this far South.”

“Bounty hunters,” said Iron Bull thoughtfully. “That changes things.”

“Changes things?” asked Adaar sharply. “They still have his blood. They can still compel him.”

“Blood magic is crude,” Dorian apologized. “You need quite a lot of it for rituals and the like. One drop? Hardly good unless you’re nearby.”

"The amount of...precision required with so little." Vivienne shook her head, her tone begrudgingly admiring.

“How near?” Bull’s eye was tight; he was committing everything from the conversation to memory.

Dorian shrugged. “Not sure. They weren’t immediately visible. Twenty feet. Thirty. No more than fifty. It’s a type of blood magic that’s illegal in Tevinter. Bound compulsion is a capital offense.”

“But your father is using it on you,” Adaar wasn’t asking a question, more speaking to herself. The silver caps of her horns were warping the firelight. “Why?”

Dorian had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “Well, because I escaped, of course,” he said lightly. “And that’s embarrassing. I had hoped he would cover it up with an invented trip to visit distant relations, or – “

“Dorian.” Adaar made his name sound ugly.

There was a tense, brief silence.

“It’s more than that,” said Vivienne slowly, leading him up to it.

Dorian wanted to be grateful, to flash a thankful glance her way, but he couldn’t look at anyone.

“Dorian, what happened to make you leave so suddenly? To come here? So far South? To the Inquisition?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” The words fell numbly from his lips.

“Dorian.”

Dorian wanted to stand from the chair, to cross to the window, to lace his fingers behind his back, to seriously talk to his dark reflection with a studious, unhurried air. Instead, he was numb, slumped in the armchair, aware of all faces on him. He wished he didn’t exist. That he had never cared about what Vivienne thought, or laughed at Adaar’s constant running around. He wished the Iron Bull would turn his calm, level eye on someone else, because Dorian was very close to crying and doing so in front of these three might break every fragile twig of dignity he had left.

“I prefer the company of men,” he said, almost inaudibly.

Adaar smiled, like he was making a joke. “So? That’s not exactly a surprise.”

Vivienne put a hand on Adaar’s wrist so that the Inquisitor folded her arms defensively, rocking back on her heels.

“Well,” said Dorian, rather ineffectually.

Adaar frowned, looked from Vivienne to Bull and then shrugged. “I don’t get it. This is…what does this have to do with a blood compulsion?”

"In some noble families," Vivienne offered hesitatingly, checking with Dorian every word to make sure she wasn't overstepping. "One's personal preference has little to do with...marriage."

"Marriage is a political contract," Dorian recycled his father's words almost without conscious control.

"He wanted you to..."

"Marry a woman, yes."

"And you wouldn't."

"I wouldn't play pretend for the rest of my life if that's what you mean," said Dorian bitterly. “My father,” His voice shook until he managed to get it under control. “He wants to use a blood ritual to…to…change me…”

Vivienne stood up from her chair. He had never seen her look so furious. Adaar’s arms came uncrossed and warily Bull pushed on the arms of his chair, eye darting for the sudden danger. 

Dorian wouldn’t look at any of them. “I didn’t want you to know. At least not yet. We haven’t known each other very long. I…”

Adaar began to pace again.

“He threatened you with your own blood?”

“Yes.”

“And you left?”

“Yes. I never thought he might…I thought at the worst he might send someone after me. I didn’t realize he meant…”

“To capture you.” The Iron Bull’s voice was smoky in the half light of the room.

“He would likely force me back by compulsion. The phylactery only works through concentration – that’s a lot for any mage, all the time. He knows I could get away, eventually. Another reason to send six mages a group. So they can take turns transporting me.”

He wished Adaar would stop looking at him like that.

“The ritual itself…it’s a…brain…”

“Dorian, stop,” said Vivienne clearly, and her voice had transcended calm to a white hot rage.

She was vibrating in place, and Dorian felt his eyes pricking with tears. He wanted to melt into the floor in humiliation.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, attempting levity. “They’re all dead now. The danger has passed.”

“Your father has a _whole vial_ of your blood,” Bull reminded him. “Those three groups only had a drop each.”

Dorian shot him a venomous look. Why couldn’t he have stayed quiet? Let him pacify Adaar into forgetting that. She wouldn’t, of course, but for a time things could return to normal.

“All of the groups had them?” Adaar was surprised. “But why did you only freeze this last fight?”

“I killed the others quickly. We caught them by surprise. They weren’t able to channel it fast enough.”

“Then he destroyed them,” said Bull calmly.

Dorian shot him another look.

“You knew?” Adaar asked in astonishment. “You _knew_ and said nothing?”

“Hey,” Bull threw up two hands. “I didn’t know what they were. Just thought it was odd Dorian was destroying glass. I would have said something after the third time. Wanted to see if he’d do it again.”

“But there was no third time.”

“ _There will be no more times_.” Vivienne’s voice made the crackling fire seem a small cold thing by comparison.

“Vivi-“

“ _This practice of magic is an abomination_.”

“Vivi-“

Vivienne strode from the room without looking at Dorian, which he felt was for the best, in case he let his carefully held face fall. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned a tired head against the armchair.

“It’s been a long day,” said Adaar after a moment. “And if my hearing is any good, my advisors are waiting outside the door.”

Vivienne had made quite the exit. She was always very good at those sorts of things.

Dorian knew a dismissal when he heard one and made to stand.

“Boss,” and this time the Iron Bull spoke firmly, instead of cautioning. “What about Dorian?”

Adaar looked confused, then her expression cleared. “Oh, Dorian, you’re not - you’re always welcome here. I am _glad_ to have you among my inner circle.”

Dorian glanced down at the coals rather than at her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What?”

“What are we going to do about Dorian?”

“I just said he could stay.”

“About the bounty hunters,” said the Iron Bull patiently. “Dorian said himself it only takes one person getting close to him for the compulsion to take hold.”

“We’re in Skyhold. When we’re on campaign, we’ll watch out for him, same as always.”

“I could infiltrate this place with a ten year old and a rotten apple.”

“A rotten apple?” Adaar lifted a graceful eyebrow.

The Iron Bull bared his teeth in a bright gesture that was not a smile. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But in the meantime, Dorian should be under guard.”

Dorian swiveled in his chair, wincing. “What?”

“I’ll ask Cullen.”

“No,” said Bull, flatly refusing. “They’re not good enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dorian’s smart. He’ll just slip away when they’re not looking.”

“Hey,” said Dorian, not sure if this was a compliment or an insult.

“I don’t want to task the Templars to-“ began Adaar uncomfortably.

“Absolutely not,” interrupted Dorian.

“I’ll do it,” said Iron Bull.

They both stopped and stared at him.

“What?” Dorian found his voice somewhere in the realm of disbelief.

“I’ll do it. I’ll guard him, at least until we get this sorted out.”

“Get this sorted out?” Dorian’s voice grew higher than he would have liked. “You said it yourself! What is he going to do? Come all the way here and get me himself?”

“He’ll have to try,” said Bull grimly. “That’s the way with bounty hunters. They've got no real reason for doing it, and the employer has every good reason to keep trying without worrying about the cost. Best defense is to keep killing everyone until he runs out of people for the job. Until we draw him out, me or one of my guys will watch you.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“No!”

“It’s up to the Inquisitor. But I would like to point out doing this not only protects Dorian, but protects the rest of Skyhold in case they _get_ to Dorian.”

Adaar looked old then. Sad.

They both understood Bull perfectly well. They would kill him rather than let him wreak havoc.

“Fuck,” Adaar said finally. “Fine.”

“Hey!”

“Thanks boss. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t care! I hate this!”

“Dorian, we can talk about it tomorrow.” Adaar pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing out. “I still have my small council. _You can come in_ ,” she added more loudly.

Dorian sat there in stunned disbelief as a sheepish Cullen stuck his head around the door and sidled inside. Leliana brushed past him.

“I assume you heard.”

“Enough.”

“Dorian’s got a bounty on his head.”

Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it. The Inquisitor had kept the details to herself. She was being kind.

“Ah,” said Leliana delicately, leaving a conversational opening as to why.

Adaar ignored her.

“I’m sorry to wake you all up.”

“I was awake,” Cullen hastily clarified.

Dorian noticed his shirt was on inside out, but declined to mention it.

“But I want to set things into motion now, before first light. If we can get this done by dawn, you can take the half day – the whole day – I don’t care.”

“It isn’t the first time I’ve gone without sleep,” said Leliana coolly.

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, then looked mildly confused to what he was agreeing to.

Josephine was silent, her eyes dark hollows in her face as she simply stared at Adaar, who was avoiding her penetrating gaze.

“Come on,” said Bull, tapping Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian didn’t bother responding, only stood, swayed, and shaking off Bull’s helping hand to his elbow moved out to the Great Hall. It was empty this time of night, and the fires were banked. He paused, momentarily disoriented, then frowned into the darkness.

“Go ahead,” said Bull, waving a hand in the dark.

“Go ahead?”

“I don’t know where your rooms are.”

“Ah. Well, to my advantage.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“It’s ridiculous. I refuse.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t have a guard all the time.”

“Why?”

“Well, because I sleep for one.”

“So?”

“So I can’t have you watching me sleep.”

“We sleep in the same tent on campaign.”

“It’s different. I have things I need to do alone.”

“Oh that,” Bull waved his hand airily. “I’m sure we can find some way of you doing it-“

“Stop talking.”

Dorian could _feel_ the Iron Bull grinning at him in the dark. He was suddenly very, very tired. He was still sore and cramped from the – well – torture seemed rather dramatic.

“You okay?”

“Oh, of course,” said Dorian vaguely.

“You going into shock?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s not absurd. Everyone does. Even me sometimes. If a fight’s bad enough.”

“Hmm.”

“Dorian?”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Don’t?”

“Just…don’t.”

“Okay.”

Dorian sighed out angrily and then because he couldn’t think of anything better to do, he took the stairs up from Josephine’s office. He turned right into the interior of the castle, navigating the dark corridors by memory. He could tell Bull was accidentally checking stone walls with his shoulders. Dorian almost smiled, but he was so exhausted from traveling back from the Exalted Plains he couldn’t quite manage it.

He opened the door to his room with a wave. The candles in the brass lanterns lit themselves, and the wood in the fire burst into blaze. Bull flinched, more obvious from his shadow than his tense muscles.

“Sorry.”

“Surprised me is all.” The Iron Bull looked around carefully, noting Dorian’s neatly made bed with its olive green blanket. At the books he had taken from the library and carefully stacked against a small table. The two armchairs in front of the fire. “This is nice.”

Dorian smiled tiredly, crossing to the left towards the bed. He wanted very much to drop into it, grime and all, but instead reached towards his vanity for the soft cloths he used to mostly wipe off his makeup.

He gestured towards the chair. “Sit.”

The Iron Bull regarded each of the armchairs and then took one in hand, turning it towards both the door and small window, though Dorian’s only window wasn’t large enough for his shoulders to fit through, and only overlooked the herb garden.

Dorian ignored him.

Instead he crossed to the simple clay ewer. It was glazed in an unvarnished white with black flecks of coal embedded where they had been blown by wind. Despite its plain appearance, Dorian was very fond of it.

He was running low on magic, but he still had enough to fill the ewer with water, pulling from the snowcapped mountain air and then slowly warming it. He dipped the cloth in the water and then began to wipe down his face. He looked over his shoulder, then winced at the twinging pain.

“Do you – do you mind?”

The Iron Bull gestured broadly. “Not at all.”

Dorian leveled a look at him, which had approximately no effect.

“No one is here. You can at least give me some privacy.”

“Fine, I’ll move my eyepatch.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“I could help you.”

“Too tired.”

“That’s why I’d help you.”

Dorian stared at him, half squinting.

“Not everything is about what people want _from_ you, you know,” said Bull, with the kindly air of someone Dorian would very much like to throttle.

“Just look away.”

Dorian stripped off his top, wiping himself down even while wishing for a real bath. The politics of the wish were too difficult to navigate at the moment, so instead he changed into a soft cotton robe for bed, shirking his pants beneath it and changing his underwear. When he was as reasonably clean as he could expect, he padded over to the bed and groaned as he crawled beneath the sheets.

The Iron Bull, to his surprise, did not comment.

Dorian shut his eyes, then opened them, waving a hand so the room went dark. He heard a faint rustle from the armchair, but Iron Bull said nothing.

“Are you going to just _sit_ there?”

“Yep.”

“All night?”

“Yeah.”

“And you haven’t slept?”

“Haven’t slept before.”

“Oh good,” said Dorian, very sarcastically.

“Hey. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I figure that’ll change pretty quick.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure we’re going to become _great_ friends.”

There was that sound in the darkness, skin over teeth, the feeling of being _laughed_ at.

Dorian turned childishly on one hip, but sighed into his pillow. He supposed having the distraction of being annoyed at the qunari mercenary was better than his shuddering horror at the realization of what Lord Pavus was doing to his own son.

Dorian shut his eyes against the thoughts, but they crowded in anyway.

He hoped his nightmares would not be obvious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I remember why I don't post chaptered fics. *flashback of me wanting to delete and rewrite everything but it's already been read*  
> Anyway, hi. This was written over several days. We may be extending the chapter count. Not sure yet.

Skyhold_____________________________________

The next day, Dorian discovered the frustrating part of having a bodyguard. He awoke with the uncomfortable feeling someone was staring at him, because someone was. He dressed fumble-fingered and awkwardly. He reported to the library without breakfast and distinctly heard the _not_ comment hanging in the air. Out of guilt, he took an apple from a basket, pocketing it for later when he felt hungry.

In the library he asked Helisma not quite desperately if there was a project he could help on. She politely replied there was not, as her time was spent researching frost rags. Dorian glanced around, refusing to notice Iron Bull’s expression, and then pulled out a book on Tevinter magisters and settled down to read.

It was distinctly bizarre reading about his country from the Orlais perspective. For one thing, a great many ‘facts’ in the book were wrong. He huffed, hands desperate to write long pages of notes, but realized it would come across as rude. Instead, he contented himself with reading it as if for work, feeling the increasing guilt that he was faffing off and no one had caught him yet.

“Are you going to eat?”

Dorian blinked upwards from wherever he had accidentally let his mind wander while his eyes kept skimming the page unseeing.

“What?” This was the first time – was it the first? - Bull had spoken this morning. Stupid qunari spy. Ever watchful.

“Eat. You know? Food?”

“Oh,” Dorian realized that the Iron Bull was likely hungry. “Here. It’s not much, but I don’t suppose you’ll leave and come back.”

The Iron Bull stared at the apple Dorian was holding out. He didn't take it.

“ _You_ haven’t eaten today,” he repeated.

Dorian had turned back to the book. “I’m not hungry.”

“But you have a headache.”

Dorian glanced up from the page in annoyance. “What?”

“A headache.”

“So you say.”

Iron Bull shrugged.

Dorian turned back from the page, pointedly leaving the apple on the tabletop for grabs if Bull was so hungry. Only now it was very difficult to concentrate. Bull had pointed out his headache, and it was like an awareness alarm had flipped. Dorian couldn’t concentrate. He frowned.

“It would help if you would eat,” pointed out Bull.

“You’re just saying that because you want to.”

He shrugged.

Dorian snapped his book closed. The book was wrong and boring and infuriating and terrible anyway. “Fine. Where do you suggest?”

“The Rest does a decent fry up.”

“A fry up?” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “I don’t supposed there’s grilled salmon somewhere? Blood orange on asparagus?”

“Unless they’re mountain climbing salmon, I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. The apple will do fine.”

“I can be annoying.”

“Yes,” Dorian said unthinkingly, then glared that Bull had tricked him into agreeing. The mercenary captain smiled at him with his crooked smile. It was a peculiar way of smiling, with only one side of his mouth ratcheting up his face in spurts depending how self-satisfied he was.

It was very high at the moment.

“Fine,” sighed Dorian. “Let’s go.”

They walked downstairs as Dorian rolled his neck on his shoulders. He hadn’t realized he had grown so stiff.

“You know, you’ve got great focus.”

“Hmm?”

“Ha.”

“Yes, well,” said Dorian, who didn’t want to admit a great deal of his morning had been spent seething and daydreaming while his eyes moved for him.

“You could stand to unwind a little.”

“This is starting to feel like a performance review.”

Bull shrugged. “You get to know someone while watching over them.”

“Their every step, their every breath,” muttered Dorian.

The crooked smile ratcheted up a few more inches, disappearing under the eyepatch. “Yeah.”

Dorian rolled his eyes as the Iron Bull pushed open the door to the Herald's Rest. A table full of people cheered.

Dorian nearly fell back a step at the onslaught of noise.

“Ah, it’s just the guys. Haven’t seen me since we left for the Hinterlands a month ago.”

Bull waded into the fray, rattling shoulders over bowls, mussing hair, slapping hands. He always angled his body towards Dorian. Always made sure he was in view.

The Chargers were sequestered in a booth, a nominal wooden table screened by animal skins. Bull pulled up a wooden chair and faced the door, then gestured for Dorian to sit.

Dorian hesitated.

He had been expecting a lunch with just himself and the Iron Bull. Not with…so many.

He wished he had just eaten the damn apple to keep Bull quiet.

Dorian sat.

“Have you met everyone?” Bull asked easily. “This is Krem, Rocky, Skinner, Dalish, Stitches, and Grim. He doesn’t talk much.”

Grim grunted as he shoveled a mouthful of potatoes.

“Hello,” said Dorian faintly.

“So we hear we have to look out for you,” said the frowning elf.

“What?”

“Chief says we’ve got to take you in shifts until your bastard father quits or comes out of the woodwork.”

Dorian stared at her, his mouth trying to work on some words.

“Skinner,” admonished the Tevine man next to Dorian. “Will you shut it?”

The rest of the table threw bits of bread at Skinner as she grew more visibly furious until Bull said lazily.

“Alright, alright,” and everyone immediately stopped, Skinner digging a knife into the table.

Without warning, everyone clapped.

Dorian felt like he was in the Fade. He pinched himself to make sure he was awake.

“We’re clapping because Skinner didn’t try to kill anyone,” beamed Dorian’s neighbor. “That’s a big step.”

Skinner smiled gratefully, and Dorian wondered if he might have been better off refusing to get out of bed this morning.

“But yeah. I’m Cremisius Aclassi, or Krem, again. Chief’s giving us shifts looking out for you.”

“I see.” Dorian couldn’t meet the Iron Bull’s eye. He had a feeling this was some sort of test, and one he wasn’t sure he was passing. He liked to be better groomed before meeting crowds of new people.

“I’m next,” continued Krem blithely. “Just until eight. A third of a day each. You know, for going around for other stuff.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, and when we get sent on campaign,” scowled Skinner. “That means one unlucky dunderhead is being left behind!”

“Unless I go on campaign with you.”

To his surprise, the Iron Bull interrupted. “No. That’s too dangerous. That’s what they would look for, when you’re alone.”

Dorian made a face, then ate the plate that was in front of him without tasting it, thinking about the phylactery. Perhaps he should make another one, for testing purposes. If he found the approximate shape and size of the bottle and emptied blood into it, he could make individual slides of blood. If he did that, then they would know how many companies could be sent. The idea was appealing, though he had the distinct impression Bull wouldn’t go for it. Instead, Dorian glanced over Krem.

“Don’t,” said Bull without looking up from where he had been eating.

“Don’t what?” asked Dorian innocently.

“Pull one over on Krem.”

“Hey-“ started Krem just as Dorian said.

“I wouldn’t.”

The Iron Bull snorted. “You would.”

“You don’t know it.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t,” Dorian said, at once stung by the accusation and baffled by it. He and the Iron Bull had only known each other for a matter of weeks, most of which had been spent hunting Venatori with phylacteries.

“I know enough.”

Dorian glanced down the table, angry at the audience.

“Don’t push him,” advised the dwarf – Rocky – into the silence. “He does this with all the newcomers. Baits them until he spills all their secrets.”

“It’s practically a right of passage,” sighed the human man whose name Dorian had immediately forgotten.

“Yeah, just think,” beamed the only other woman, another elf. She was a mage; Dorian could feel the hum of her magic behind his eyes just glancing at her. “You’re one of the team once Chief gets you down.”

Dorian felt his eye unwillingly flick to Bull at her innocent words, and this time the stony face ratcheted a tiny crooked half smile in conceding amusement at the entendre.

“Well, I’m full,” said Dorian, pushing back his plate. He wasn’t. He couldn’t even remember what he had eaten. Something with potatoes, if the other plates were to be believed.

“You didn’t finish!” protested the mage. She looked around. “He didn’t even…he didn’t even finish his food.”

The others were staring at Dorian like he was insane, and Dorian felt himself slowly turn red as he understood. He had never gone hungry. Food was there or it wasn’t. He had never needed to eat everything on his plate. There was always plenty more.

“You can have it,” he muttered, and slipped out of the booth, feeling the hot sigh of Krem behind him as he followed him out of the Rest.

“I know they’re a lot,” Krem apologized as he pulled on a pair of gloves. “Chief likes to mob people all at once. Thinks the reactions are funny.”

“Ah,” said Dorian. He was glad the Iron Bull wasn’t here. He didn’t think he was masking his face well.

“Where to?” asked Krem cheerfully.

Dorian paused on the grass, then turned around. “The quartermaster. I need supplies.”

After placing an order (crossed and recrossed with ideas) Dorian left the young man who had been stammering enough for Dorian to consider propositioning him. If Krem hadn’t been there, perhaps…

It had been a while since he had company. He had managed at least one quick breathless night with a faceless stranger, but it hadn’t been all that satisfying, and it had been over too fast. Barely an hour, with all that set up.

Dorian shook himself out of his thoughts. The poor man was obviously inexperienced, and Dorian was not a patient teacher.

By the time they climbed back to the library, it was teatime. Dorian dithered outside the door to Vivienne’s balcony, trying to ignore the way Krem’s mouth was twitching in a half smile as he ostensibly looked out over the library. Finally, he turned the handle and felt Krem following behind.

“Who’s this?” Vivienne asked. She had set two place settings after all, and Dorian wanted to shrivel up with the toxic mixture of mortification and gratitude.

“Bull’s got me under guard.”

Vivienne breathed in one long breath before responding. She was silent as she held it, then she gestured for Krem to sit.

“Oh, no thanks ma’am,” said Krem politely. “I’m just here to make sure nobody tries to kill Dorian.”

“No one’s trying to kill me,” said Dorian irritably. “Only scramble my brain.”

Krem stared at him and Dorian shrugged with a sharp wave. “Just…stand over there. I guess.”

Krem began a slow patrol, venturing outside to peer over Vivienne’s view, and then circle around her U shaped balcony to watch the workers in the Great Hall below.

“Dorian-“

“Please,” Dorian was surprised to hear how quickly and how rough his voice grew. “Don’t say-“

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

They were silent together for a time.

“I was wondering if you might help me on a project.”

Dorian glanced up from his tea. Vivienne had been kind enough to include a small saucer of cream, though she didn’t take any herself. “Really?”

A crinkling in the corners of her eyes was her answering smile.

They delved into the subject matter for a time, and Dorian genuinely forgot about Krem, even when the younger man yawned openly. After a lingering tea of two hours, Dorian got up.

“Dinner?” asked Krem hopefully.

Dorian frowned at him. “I just ate.”

“You ate a biscuit.”

“Yes. With honey.”

Krem was staring at him in faint amazement. “Chief can pick ‘em,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”

Dorian was afraid Krem was going to try to bully him into dinner, but instead Dorian led Krem to his rooms then paused at the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Chief said-“

“Look at that window. Could you fit through that window?”

“No?”

“Could anyone fit through that window?”

“A child, maybe.”

“We’re also on the third floor, Krem. Can’t you at least keep guard in the hallway and let me keep some measure of my sanity?”

Krem looked uncertain. He made Dorian stand in the middle of the room as he performed a check, under the bed, behind the vanity. Dorian didn’t have a chest of drawers or a wardrobe, and kept his clothes in a series of apple crates, which Krem pushed about with a reluctant foot.

“Okay,” he said finally, rubbing his light brown hair with a rueful hand. “I’ll wait outside. Just a reminder that Dalish will come relieve me at eight.”

“Fine. She can sit out there.”

Krem shrugged but Dorian shut the door in his face before he could change his mind.

Although it had been only a day of guarding, the weeks on campaign were also wearing at him. He was _alone_. Finally. He could take off his clothes how he wanted. He could take a bath. He could –

Well, the Iron Bull wasn’t here.

Dorian hadn’t taken such a long time to pamper himself since arriving in Skyhold. He used every lotion and oil he possessed on his skin and hair; he cleaned his teeth, even with thread; he wrapped himself in his sheets.

He cursed.

It was only early evening now, even with the time spent. And he was _bored._

He wasn’t, by nature, a solitary creature. It was only that everyone here wasn’t _his._ In Tevinter, he had known people all his life. Dorian tried to quash the thought that a great many of those people he had known had just been killed. If he wanted to play a game, or get quietly drunk and debate magical theory, if he wanted to go for a swim or find someone to sample cheese with – those were all easily accessible. There were whore houses if he was lonely, and a few good friends who he didn’t mind fucking. There were always things to do and people to do them with.

Skyhold was…different.

It was terribly lonely, for one thing. For another, he just felt – out of place. Like his gaff at the Rest. Why hadn’t he just _eaten_ the food? Why was talking to other people so difficult? He wanted it to magically be easy. He realized suddenly he’d never had to do any of the work in making a life for himself. Not only was his education and comfort handed to him, but his social group, his personal life, his amusement had been carefully catered. Now that he was thirty something years old in a strange country speaking a language second to his own he realized he was something of an idiot.

Dorian cracked the door.

Krem was standing nearby, though there was a wooden chair Dorian had scooted out for him.

“Would you like to get drunk?” he asked brightly.

Krem stared at him.

“With me,” clarified Dorian.

“Oh,” and Krem actually _blushed_. “No, you see –“

“Not like that,” said Dorian impatiently. “For fun.”

“I’m…I’m on duty.”

“I can pull the alcohol from your blood.”

“You can _what_?”

“It’s an easy trick. Evaporating alcohol. You can get drunk, but when we’re done you’ll be as sober as a stone.”

Krem looked awkward, shifting foot to foot. “I shouldn’t. Chief wouldn’t like it.”

“If your chief were here, he’d probably join me.”

Krem sighed. “Maker’s ass. Fine.”

“Really?” Dorian brightened. He quickly waved a hand, raising light levels in his room then cast around for a bottle of wine as Krem entered cautiously.

“What’s the game?”

Dorian stopped as he was uncorking a bottle. “What?”

“The game?” Krem looked impatient, and Dorian realized this was another gaff he had made, expecting Krem to drink like his old friends, debating philosophy or quoting poems.

“Ah,” he said weakly, casting about for half remembered rules from his youth. “Do you know Splashy Rooks?”

Krem snorted. “What am I? An idiot? Of course I know Splashy Rooks. Dumb game though. There’s a better version, Arl’s Run. You know it?”

“No.”

“Good,” and this time Krem actually smiled, unbuckling his breastplate at the top. “I’ll teach it to you.”

* * *

Dorian ignored Dalish talking in a low voice to Rocky. “He hasn’t eaten.”

“Hasn’t eaten?”

“At all today.”

“At _all_?”

“Nah, thought I’d bring him to the Herald’s Rest. One hot meal a day kind of thing.”

“Chief would like that.”

“I’m not going,” snapped Dorian irritably.

They both fell silent somewhere behind his shoulder.

“And anyway,” he continued blithely snapping into an apple just to spite them. “I have somewhere to be.”

Hours later Vivienne raised her eyebrows and blinked. “My dear, I think that’s enough for today.”

“What?” Dorian was busy inscribing glyphs into a notebook.

“We can pick up again tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Dorian looked down at the notebook. “Right.”

Rocky led him with a smug smile towards Dorian’s rooms, which was odd because he was sure Rocky hadn’t been there before.

The fireplace was already lit, and there was already someone inside.

“Sit,” said the Iron Bull, gesturing at the armchair. On the vanity was set a covered plate. “You’re going to eat this.”

“I-“ began Dorian, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly. He tried to think. He had definitely eaten an apple. Tea with Vivienne.

He glanced around for Rocky who had disappeared.

“You know, having them all report to you isn’t very fair,” grumbled Dorian, taking his time in closing the door.

The Iron Bull smiled at him, a full smile that showed many teeth. It was not, in fact, a smile.

“Besides, what do you care?”

“What?”

“What do you care what I do?”

“You’re not eating.”

“So?”

“Are you afraid of poison? I can test that no problem.”

Dorian stared at him, confused. “What?”

The Iron Bull laughed. Like his smile, it was not actually a laugh. He dragged a big hand down his jaw. He muttered a deep string of syllables in Qunlat that Dorian thought he half recognized as curses.

“This was supposed to be an easy job,” he told Dorian. “Keep an eye on you.”

“I haven’t tried to leave,” Dorian protested. “I could have run off or hidden in the hayloft or something, but I didn’t.”

“Have you ever been in a hayloft?”

“That’s besides the point.”

Bull grunted. “Anyway. I didn’t realize I’d have to keep you _alive_.”

“I’m alive! I’m fine!”

“Eat the damn food.”

“I ate earlier.”

“What’d you eat?”

Dorian paused. “An apple.” Even he knew he sounded uncertain.

The Iron Bull blew out a long breath. “I know you get caught up in work,” he began.

“You – you _know_.” Dorian was finding this distinctly unfair.

“Yeah. I get it.”

“So you said.” His tone was clipped. “What do you ‘get’?”

“You don’t want me-“

“I want you to.”

The Iron Bull paused a long moment.

“It’s a profile, isn’t it?”

Slowly, the qunari nodded.

“And is it just me, from Tevinter, or can I assume you have one on everyone?”

“It’s not like you think,” said the Iron Bull quietly. “It’s not an official record. Not written down. Not even reported. Just how I think.”

“How you think?”

“Sure. Things I pick up.”

“What things.”

“Let’s say – let’s say I meet someone.”

Dorian glared at him.

“Anyone. A stranger. We have a drink. I ask where he grew up. Mentions his mother. Already I know something.”

“What?”

“No mention of dad, right?”

“There’s lots of –“

“Yeah. Lots of. Could be sad. Could be angry. But I’ve already found a piece of him that’s messed up. Then later, I go to brush a bug off his shoulder.”

“There’s no bug, is there.”

“Nah. It’s a test. He flinches. You see?”

“Explain it to me as if I didn’t.”

“Hey, he didn’t mention a dad. Flinches when I raised a hand. I already got a lot now. I can drop hints on my end, talk about unfairness. Talk about growing up. Suddenly he’s putting up more flags. Talks about his little sister.”

Dorian looked away, pressing his mouth tight.

“Yeah. That’s what I think too. I’m an hour into drinks, and I already know the worst bits.”

“Maybe not.”

“Yeah. Maybe not. Maybe he killed the old man. I don’t know. But it’s like that. You just sort of – pile on and pile on.”

“The milk in the tea.”

This time Iron Bull looked surprised. “What?”

“You knew how to prepare my tea.”

“That stuff is…secondary. I don’t mean for that stuff to happen.”

“That you’re watching so much you notice the good things too?”

“Sure, I can get a measure of a person fairly quick.”

“And me?”

“You want to?”

“Tell it to me best you remember.”

“Hmm.” The Iron Bull sank into an armchair, glaring at Dorian until he did likewise. The fire was pleasant on Dorian’s shins. He hadn’t realized his feet were cold.

“The first time we met…it’s a dozen little things.”

“Try.”

“The way you dressed. The way you gelled your hair, your mustache. Wearing makeup, even in the rain. White boots. Halla leather in a muddy place like the Storm Coast. It’s all money. And money means a certain kind of family, which comes with a host of specialized problems.”

“And it became obvious which ones.”

“Not obvious, not at first. Helped that we joked around. Could see when you watched other men, glancing over your shoulder.”

Dorian flushed suddenly, ashamed and angry in turns. If he could only hide better, none of this would be happening. But that was the point, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t have to hide. He should be able to sleep with his friends or go to body houses or whatever he wanted so long he was still proficient in his duties.

“Only child, but you never talk about your parents.”

Dorian turned his face to the fire.

“Not sure about your mom. I’ve got a majority guess she’s dead.”

Dorian didn’t look around, but by the way his shoulders tensed without his permission, he knew Iron Bull had seen.

“And your father was the sore subject.”

“The flags?”

“Some. Jokes you made. Laughing off bitterness.”

Dorian laughed bitterly.

“You really love Tevinter, even though you’re ashamed of it.”

“I really loved…” Dorian groped for the words. “My childhood. It was very good to me. And you’re right. It’s because of money. But there are things I wish other people could see. The food, for one. The music. Street theatre. Types of drinks. How many pronouns we have, that’s one I’m not used to here.”

“Krem neither.”

“Ah,” said Dorian, and felt his fingers curl into his armchair. He said nothing else.

“And you’re lonely.”

Dorian turned to look at Bull, and then wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t the kindness he expected to see, but the open scrutiny and curiosity was too much to bear. He only turned his chin away, letting the fire warm his face.

It must be quite cold out. He hadn’t noticed the chill until now.

“Is that a fact?”

“You offered to drink with Krem, of all people.”

“I have no problem with Krem. I understand leaving because of…of who you are.”

“It’s more that you don’t want me and my guys guarding you, but when it came down to it, they’re who you asked for company.”

Dorian shot Bull an annoyed look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The Iron Bull’s lip pulled up on half his face. “I’ll keep trying then.”

Dorian, disgruntled, settled deeper into his armchair.

“So I have to draw the conclusion that you just…don’t want us to see.”

Dorian did not rise to the conversational bait, but Bull nodded like he had.

“To see how you live. How lonely your life is here. How much you gave up and how little you pretend to care.”

“Stop,” and Dorian couldn’t believe _this_ was the thing that would rankle most. More than even his father, whom he had considered the sorest subject.

The Iron Bull stopped.

“What do you want me to say?” Dorian was surprised his own voice was so waspish and dry. His throat hadn’t been dry when he opened his mouth. “That I’m lonely? That I _hate_ it here? Yes! You’ve caught on. Brilliant spywork. Really wonderful.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because the alternative is to be _there_ ,” Dorian tried to laugh. He did. It failed, and he hoped Bull would ignore it as he pushed on. “And the place that I miss can’t exist anymore because half the people who are supposed to be there are dead. And a good many of them _I_ killed. And even if I went home and it was all somehow magically fixed, and my father forgot all about it – “

The Iron Bull looked at him compassionately. “You would know.”

“Yes.” Dorian shivered – from the cold. “I would still know.”

“You could go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Orlais, Fereldan, I’m sure lots of places would like to have a visiting noble.”

“Visiting. Until the glamour wore off. Until I ran through my wardrobe twice. Until it became evident I was a hanger on. Until it was obvious I had no money. At least here I’m useful.”

"Is that how you measure worth? How useful someone is?"

"That's how I measure my worth, I think."

The Iron Bull's eye was dark in the firelight and Dorian winced.

"That was a flag, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Give me the plate."

"Yeah?"

"Might as well."

"Good."

"Shut up."

Skyhold_____________________________________

Vivienne _and_ Solas gone with Adaar. Dorian rubbed his head with his fingers. He had assured them he would have no problems, that he would handle things here after weeks of silence from the Venatori, but he also hadn’t realized how much they did. Suddenly the library was no longer a play-acting stage. People were spamming him with the most ridiculous requests – questions he had no idea how to answer.

“Brief me on our acquisitions requirements from the Circles;” “Tell us about the strategy for apostate propaganda;” “Does the merchant bidding process need to be vetted by a mage for quality of lyrium potions?” And more, and _more_. By Tuesday, Dorian had stuck his fingers over his hair so many time it was standing up all over his scalp. An annoyed Stitches had jabbed him until he had mechanically eaten whatever was on the plate, his finger still running down an account book trying to figure out who the point of contact for the merchant process was. With Adaar on campaign and Josephine in Val Royeaux on a diplomatic envoy, somehow it fell to Dorian as the most experienced noble to handle the housekeeping of Skyhold.

“Where do new apostates go?” “How can we get more robes with inflammable glyphs?” “How much are we paying the archanist to make runes? Would it be cheaper to buy them wholesale from a tower?”

By Tuesday night it was Dalish’s turn to tug uselessly under an elbow.

“Just a few more minutes.”

“It’ll be there in the morning!”

“Yes, but I’m doing something right now. I want to finish.”

“If you don’t get up, I’ll call the captain on you.”

Dorian glared at her over his shoulder, and compromised by rolling up the parchment and taking a book with him to work in his room. Dalish stayed outside the door.

Dorian had instituted a firm privacy policy, which only Iron Bull flagrantly ignored. He could feel the beginnings of the headache pushing behind his eyes. He finally set down the pen feeling wrung out and weary. He tried to read for an hour but kept nodding off; the book was on Tevinter history, trying to parse out bits of Corypheus’ story after Haven. He simply didn’t have the brain space to pay attention.

He crawled into bed and woke several times over the night. His dreams were full of anxieties, ridiculous horrible things about saving Leliana from Alexius again, but this time when they found her all her teeth had been broken into shards and sharpened into needles. She cut her own mouth bloody trying to speak, snapping several off as Dorian offered her water with a shaking hand.

He startled awake, sweating, and listened for a moment to his own heart. The tiny window outside his room was dark, but when he crossed to it he could see the faint grey of predawn creeping up. It must be four in the morning. A perfectly acceptable time to stagger home at.

Dorian’s gritty eyes strayed and fell upon the work from yesterday. With a sigh, he set a teapot boiling with a spell and began to get ready for his day. When he pulled the door open, Dalish blinked at him, her eyes rapidly returning to watchfulness from the unfocused rest most guards employed when watching an empty hallway.

“What are you doing?”

“Going back to work.”

“It’s not even dawn.”

Dorian didn’t know how Dalish knew that in the windowless hallway, but he ignored her. He strode down the stone corridor, hearing her curses behind him as she stood, gathering her things and following at an undignified trot. He took the stairs down towards Josephine’s empty office, crossed the dark low-burning Great Hall, and through the door to Solas’ empty mural room. Not even the maids were awake yet to stoke the fires.

Dorian ignored Dalish’s mumbled curses as she followed him up the stairs to the completely empty library. With a wave, Dorian lit as many lanterns as he could see and set back to work.

Wednesday was better, or Dorian was adapting. Fewer people interrupted him. He penned missives and tried to tackle some of the questions. A nervous quartermaster sidled in to ask if he might mediate with the forge about the demands for pricing and shipping, which he didn’t control. Dorian sent Cassandra, and felt successful that if her attempts at mediation failed, she would certainly make sure the problem didn’t arise again. The Enchanter Fiona wanted to have an audience, and Dorian spent time walking the battlements with her to hear the mage issues. She obviously hoped he’d be more sympathetic than Vivienne. He was, but didn’t commit aloud. He spent time pouring over reports from Leliana that could point to Venatori activity and marked them with red ink if they seemed credible, giving the sheaf of papers back to a passing scout with an impatient rustle at Dalish to run them over.

“I’m not doing that,” said Krem, stifling a yawn.

Dorian stared. “When did you get here?”

“At eight this morning.”

“What time is it?”

Krem looked at him pityingly. “After one.”

“Oh.” Dorian looked at the stack of papers on his desk and promptly forgot about Krem again, only taking the sandwich when it appeared in front of his face and cramming half of it absently into his mouth. He set the other half of it down and promptly lost it when he opened more books to cross-reference a name in one of Leliana’s reports to one he thought he remembered reading.

“That’s enough,” insisted Skinner.

Dorian frowned at her. “I thought it was Krem.”

“Krem left two hours ago.”

“Did he?”

“ _Yes_ Tavinte Tarlen. And it’s dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“The end of your day.”

“What?”

“Come on.”

Dorian, bemused, let the smaller woman pull him by a fistful of robes and push him to stagger down the stairs. His legs were stiff from sitting, his back screaming from hunching over the table.

“I have to write a lesson plan,” he remembered aloud. “Let me get paper and ink.”

Sighing in exasperation, Skinner allowed him to turn around and gather supplies before hauling him to the Herald’s Rest.

Dorian was too bemused to be overwhelmed by the greetings of everyone at the table now. The last few weeks had seen a rotating blur of faces as they changed guard. He couldn’t remember when Bull had last seen him, but when he looked up, the Iron Bull was gone.

“He and the Nightingale are puzzling out a new Qun cipher,” Krem called openly, when he saw Dorian’s confused eye roaming the rest for a glimpse of Bull in his usual spot at the back of the tavern.

“Oh,” said Dorian, not sure why he felt a fluttering unhappiness in his stomach. It wasn’t as if he actually _liked_ the big mercenary.

“Eat,” said Skinner.

Dorian nodded then rolled out a parchment to the boos of the table and began to write, vaguely accepting a spoon with his non-dominant hand and managing a few mouthfuls of whatever stew was on the hearth as he wrote.

Thursday he was up at dawn again. He took stock of his exhaustion. Not bad, but his shoulders were tight and aching with how he had slept. He knotted his hands behind his back, trying to open up his lungs and immediately winced at the sharp and pulling pain. He kept his yelp muffled in case whoever was on the other side of the door could hear. When he opened it he discovered it was Grim. Dorian liked Grim. Grim didn’t talk.

It was a brutal, meat-grinder sort of day. Despite expecting the usual mages meeting to be cancelled, he still ended up meeting with several people, completely failed to help Leliana in a merciless grilling situation where she asked him difficult questions Solas or Vivienne might have known; and received a set of extradition papers from Tevinter for his own arrest.

He realized Leliana had given them to him to redact as he wanted, a kindness that was most unexpected.

“I can’t be disturbed,” he told Grim, and then locked himself in his own rooms to read them.

He tried to be impartial, but the accounting of events leading to his leaving – _stole 500 gold pieces, 1 horse, 4 sets of clothes_ – were so outrageous and so biased he ended up laughing over them. He felt his face heat with shame and rage as he took a shaking pen in his fingers and tried to cross out whole phrases.

“Are you okay?” That was Stitches again, calling through the door. _When had Grim gone?_ Dorian ignored him, and Stitches was polite enough not to poke his head in.

Halfway through the seventy odd pages of the extradition request, Stitches knocked again. “It’s for you.”

Dorian sighed, opened his door, and was surprised to see Varric and Cole.

“Hello,” he said, for lack of anything better.

“Sit,” said Varric to Cole, who obediently sat on the bed instead of in an armchair.

Dorian opened his mouth to protest, but Varric beat him to it.

“The kid is changing.”

“What?”

“Something’s off about him. Wanted an expert opinion.” So Dorian sat and listened as Varric and Cole earnestly entreated his opinion about personhood.

“I can guess where Solas stands,” he commented dryly, and Varric sighed a blustery sigh in answer.

After they finally left, he turned back to the indictment and tried to keep reading, but his head was pounding in time with his heart and his vision was crawling white at the corners. Dorian knew, rationally, he was pushing his limits towards a breakdown. He was ballooning his anxiety tolerance and he needed to back off. Stubbornly, he continued a few more pages until he came to the descriptions of the “crimes” he had committed “against” his friends, who had turned on him in face of his defection. Then he almost cried. Instead he covered his face with his hands and pushed his hair straight back, knuckling at his eyes and forgetting only after they came away grey that he was wearing eyeliner.

He snapped the door inwards. “Okay,” he said. “I’m done.”

“I’m afraid the quartermaster wants a word.”

Dorian wanted to whimper that _no_. He had already worked himself almost twelve hours, and pushing him around other people when he was so raw and so tense was a breaking point. Instead, he swallowed and nodded.

He followed Stitches to the quartermaster, who complained tearfully about Cassandra’s treatment. Dorian cursed internally, having congratulated himself about his idea the day before. He wasn’t in the _mood_ to comfort anyone. All he was in the mood to lock himself in his room and breathe face first into a pillow until his head stopped pounding or until he passed out.

“Okay,” he said calmly, his voice only teetering close to the edge of fury but not quite crossing. “Now I’m done.”

“I’m sorry,” said Stitches regretfully. “You have a meeting with the Commander on the ramparts.”

Dorian wanted to scream. Wanted to shake the man that this was an important meeting, he should have been interrupted; he would have left and gone straight there.

“Hey Chief,” said Stitches gratefully, waving at the Iron Bull over Dorian’s shoulder.

Dorian turned, his face giving away too much anger and pain and frustrated exhaustion before he caught it. The Iron Bull’s eyebrow went up over a clear eye, but Dorian turned away before he could finish surveying him.

Dorian left and only realized after it was too late Stitches hadn't mentioned where.

He crossed towards the Herald’s Rest and then passed it to the staircase leading up to the ramparts. He climbed the stairs with short, angry breaths and ignored the shadow of the Iron Bull on the flagstones as it kept pace silently behind him. He walked the ramparts quickly, eyes searching for a black stole, a flash of blonde hair, a straight-backed waiting figure, but there was nothing. Dorian pushed himself onwards, turning the corner on the rampart, his eyes confused, scanning. And then he was nearly running, a third side, feeling the crushing weight of being late, of keeping him waiting, of needing to get to Cullen’s office to explain, to –

“Dorian?”

Dorian realized he had stopped dead in the middle of the ramparts, able to see all of them from the angle over the courtyard and Cullen wasn’t on any of them. He was shivering and he realized without warning he was about to break.

“Don’t-“ he tried to say. His voice was warped.

“Dorian, what are we –“

“I need to get to a meeting with Cullen,” Dorian said, very fast, but was horrified that the tears spilled out with it. And then it was too late, he was breathing too fast, his anxiety was swamping him and the terror of failing after Vivienne had trusted him – after Josephine – after _Adaar_ , who had heard – of Leliana who had sent him –

“How can I help?” The words were even, measured as Dorian glared at him, hyperventilating, trying to catch his breath, feeling his shoulders and chest seizing up, his fingers cutting hard into his palms. He needed a knife or something sharp, he might be able to control the spiral, to take the edge-

He flinched, his staff falling from numb fingers as the Iron Bull reached out a concerned hand and then paused, hovering as Dorian dissolved into angry hacking half-legible words:

“I need to get to a meeting with Cullen-“

“He’ll understand-“

“No! They didn’t tell me. I would have come right away – I just- I was – it’s stupid! I’ve been busy. I made the wrong choices – I –“

“You’re done.” This time the Iron Bull’s voice brooked no arguments. “You’re done, for today. We can send Cullen your regrets.”

“No! I have to – “

“Dorian _look_ at yourself.”

Dorian covered his face with his hands and wished the Iron Bull wasn’t there.

“What can I do?”

“ _GO AWAY_ ,” Dorian snarled. “Just leave me alone! Go away!”

“I can’t do that.”

“GET OUT!”

Very carefully, the Iron Bull backed up to the other side of the rampart, hands held out in front of him. “This is as far as I can go.”

“Don’t look at me!”

The Iron Bull turned his back, and Dorian felt his heart calm down at the implicit trust Bull was giving him.

Dorian leaned out between the crenelations, looking towards the inside of the courtyard. He forced himself to take big gulps of air, trying to get himself under control. His hands were shaking and clenched to his chest. He wondered where his staff was. He wondered if it would hurt very much to-

"Let's get you inside."

Dorian whirled around from the wall and saw the Iron Bull, while facing to one side, had angled his eye towards Dorian's back.

“I don’t want to do anything.”

“Okay.” Iron Bull’s voice was still that infuriating calm. “Can you tell me what’s going on in your head?”

Dorian gripped his head with both hands and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he managed. “Screaming.”

If the Iron Bull was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only tried to step nearer and Dorian flinched. He stepped back.

“Come on. Let’s get you to your room.”

Dorian wanted to disagree on principal, but the idea of shutting himself alone in his room was the most appealing thing in the world right now, so he scrubbed the ruin of his makeup from his face and followed silently behind Iron Bull.

The fact that Bull was letting him walk second said a lot, and Dorian wanted to tell him he appreciated it, but his tongue felt cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his brain was making a loud white static sound. He felt the exhaustion suddenly, keenly, with the sharp spiking pain of a headache.

It took less time than Dorian credited to find their way back to his own hallway. The entire way there he had kept his face on the ground, his brain oddly blank, not calm but not functioning either. He could feel the rigid set of his mouth, his wide eyes. He was glad he did not meet anyone’s gaze or have to explain himself to Cullen.

He followed the Iron Bull into the room with a spike of panic, realizing the sheaf of papers was still open, still visible. He wanted to bustle over and hide them. Instead he forced his gaze away, the way he had with the phylactery, and pretended he didn’t see.

“You doing okay?”

Woodenly Dorian nodded. Forced himself not to see the softening of Bull’s eye, the opposite of a crooked smile pulling down a corner of his mouth. It stretched an invisible scar white, and belatedly Dorian realized he was staring vacantly.

“What do you need?”

Dorian didn’t answer. He only went to his bed, fully clothed, and pulled the covers up over his head, breathing in the small dark space they created and shut his eyes.

Long minutes passed, and it occurred to Dorian he might have thought to hide the extradition papers. He flinched, rustling under the covers, sure that Bull was reading them. The stomach squirming agony of the thought caused him to roll over, his hands creeping up to cover his pounding head, squeezing his eyes shut, praying it would be over, that his blood pressure would return to normal. He could forget the incident ever happened. Beg Bull to forget. No one would need know. He could make excuses to Cullen – he could –

Dorian sat up in bed, his hands shaking. _Cullen’s letter_.

It seemed vitally important, somehow, to write the explanation now.

Dorian crossed to the small vanity he used as a writing desk. He could tell the papers there were off, ever so slightly, though the Iron Bull was sitting in the armchair innocently, leg stretched before him.

Ignoring both of those facts, Dorian pulled paper and pen towards him and began to hastily scrawl an apology to Cullen. His reasons were weak – _not feeling well – I had no knowledge of the meeting before five minutes ago_ – but he felt the bursting pressure at his skin ease a little just with the action of writing it. That was good. His skin still felt shivery and full, but when he folded the letter and mutely held it out to Iron Bull, the qunari took it without comment.

“Could you please get this to Cullen?”

Bull looked torn. He glanced at the empty room, then at Dorian’s face. “I can’t.”

“Just call someone to deliver it for you then. From the hallway. The others sit there.”

The Iron Bull ignored the pointed jab, but deigned to walk into the hallway. Dorian crossed back to his vanity and dipped a face cloth in water to wipe off his makeup. Seeing his reflection in the mirror made him wince. The eyeliner had smudged deep circles into his skin. He looked a mess.

The cold water only made him flinch and angrily Dorian heated the tips of his fingers to burning before grabbing his own arm around, hissing at the burning spot of pain before releasing it when he began to shake. The smell of burnt hair was faint, but Dorian pulled down his sleeve and felt more in control.

He sat back on the bed, his head still dizzy with pain.

After about ten minutes, he noticed he had been staring at the floor and the Iron Bull was quietly watching him from a chair.

“When did you get back?” His tongue was heavy.

“Do you want me to do it?”

The question made no sense. Dorian blinked at him. “What?”

“Do you want me to deal with it?”

Dorian rubbed his head. “What?”

“All of it. You want me to take care of it?”

“Yes,” Dorian heard his tongue say before his slow-moving brain could catch up.

“Of you?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to take care of you? I’ll do it. I’ll fix it.”

Dorian felt his eyes flood and he looked away. He knew he should say _no_.

“Let me do it,” Bull’s voice was low, coaxing. “I know you’ve been putting up with me when you didn’t have to. I know you could have given me the slip with magic. We both know it. Just let me – I don’t know – _try_.”

Unwillingly, Dorian nodded, his eyes still glued to the floor.

“You’re overtired. You’ve been doing the work of three people. Maybe four. And you’re upset because you didn’t get it all done. It’s impossible.”

Dorian didn’t say anything about the sheaf of papers on the vanity, and neither did Bull, both pretending for politeness sake.

“Come here.”

Dorian didn’t move.

With an aggrieved sigh the Iron Bull approached him warily, but when Dorian still didn’t move off the bed, Bull relaxed.

“You pushed too hard. Should have quit while you were ahead. Cullen would have understood. You could –“

Dorian tuned Bull out, his skin hyper aware of Bull’s warm fingers tilting his face upwards towards Bull’s scrutinizing gaze. He refused to meet his eye, but he could feel Bull’s gaze pulling at the small ways he held his face. The tightness in his forehead. The set of his mouth. Bull was still saying something, narrating in a low warm stream of words, probably chiding Dorian without any real heart. Dorian closed his eyes against the cloth as Bull wiped down his face, one hand in Dorian’s hair.

Dorian wanted to protest. This was…this wasn’t a bodyguard’s job. This was cleaning him up in a way –

His mind skittered away from the thought as Bull rummaged through his clothes and threw some on the bed.

“I’ll set up the screen.”

Dorian simply waited, his hands loose and his expression vacant. He obediently changed behind the screen and then sat in an armchair. Almost without permission he had tucked his bare feet up beneath him and folded his knees up to one side. It was a favorite position from childhood, a safe curving of his spine. He straightened, trying to find it in him to be embarrassed and uncurl, but then Bull had settled a blanket over him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m going to order you something to eat.” Dorian heard that clearly because he made a face even as Bull’s tone brooked no arguments. “And you’re going to eat it.”

Dorian shut his eyes, tipping his head into the wingbacked armchair. Maybe if he fell asleep before the food arrived…

His heart was still hammering too fast. It was hurting his chest. His arm was stinging fiercely from where he had burned himself. Beneath the blanket he twisted his forearm up to his chest and gently rested the fingers of his other hand over the burn marks. The pain faded as he iced them. The ice was a distraction as much as anything, a reason to keep his eyes shut, his hand closed.

He listened to the heavy tromping of boots as Bull moved to the door, down the hall, speaking softly with a maid. Heard him return. Settle into the armchair. Dorian squeezed his eyes shut more tightly against the feeling of being observed.

A creak of his door, the soft nervous footsteps of a maid. Dorian didn’t even open his eyes at the rattle of cutlery on the vanity. The door shutting.

“Come eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Dorian.”

“Be quiet.”

“I said I was going to fix it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know. But it’ll make you feel better.”

Dorian unwillingly opened his eyes, feeling them pricking with anger and shame and the horrible, inescapable kindness.

“I’ll do it,” he said irritably, snatching at the fork before Bull did something so mortifying as try to feed him.

He closed his mind against thoughts of his mother, caring for her at the last.

His hands were shaking badly enough he knew Bull noticed, which made him even more sour and upset, so Dorian shoveled the potatoes and chicken thighs as fast as possible, staring fixedly at the table. He ignored the Iron Bull to climb into bed, then glared up beneath his eyebrows. “There. All better. Happy?”

The Iron Bull smiled his crooked smile and handed him the book he had been reading.

“I have to work tomorrow.”

“You should read if it makes you happy.”

Dorian opened the book, not about to argue. It was a way to work, even quietly.

Ten minutes passed as the Iron Bull settled himself in the armchair that he dragged to the middle of the room. Dorian lay in bed, propped up, book open, eyes unseeing. He felt the book leave his fingers and blinked.

“What-“

“I got it.”

“Bull, no –“

“During the ancient…wait…what is this?”

Dorian half-smiled. “It’s for work.”

“I was going to read it to you.”

“So it would seem. That’s very sweet.”

The Iron Bull’s creeping smile twisted its way up half his face. “You think I’m sweet?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and settled back into the pillows. “I’m fine now,” he said, almost honestly. “You can leave.”

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?”

The Iron Bull’s voice was so calm Dorian’s hair pricked up on the back of his neck.

“What happened to your arm?”

Dorian glanced down where his sleeve had come up and hastily, too late, far too late, pulled it down over the burns.

“Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Dorian.” And the way the Iron Bull said his name, in a deep, shuddery voice made Dorian jerk his chin in willful defiance even as the qunari, smiling slightly, picked up his arm with gentle fingers.

Quietly, Bull laid his own, much larger fingertips over Dorian’s marks.

“You did this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Today?”

Dorian was silent.

“When you were coming apart?”

Dorian turned his gaze as if fascinated by the small window, though all he could see out of the glass diamonds in the iron mullioned windows was the darkening sky.

“Okay,” said Bull, his voice still so calm and so deep Dorian felt the goosebumps erupt down his shoulders. “If you can’t talk about this now, we’ll talk about it later. But if you refuse, then I’m going to have to put you under suicide care.”

“Don’t be _dramatic_ ,” Dorian bit out.

“Am I?”

“I said it was nothing.”

“Five burns. Fingers on your skin.”

“Small. Not – I’m not going to –“

“The letter from Leliana.”

“You’ve been snooping?”

“You’re not surprised.”

“No,” said Dorian bitterly. “I’m not.”

Silence for a moment.

“I don’t like…losing control,” Dorian finally managed at last.

The Iron Bull sank quietly to the edge of the bed. Dorian realized he was still holding his hand and tried to tug it back, but it wouldn’t come. Bull only smiled a crooked grin at him and held on.

“You need a place where you can let go,” Bull said conversationally. “So that the rest of the time you can keep it together.”

“I have that place,” Dorian snapped. “Here. This room.”

“This room. With all the people I’ve set to guard you?”

“Yes, now you see how annoying that is.”

“And tell me,” Bull’s voice was suspiciously friendly. “If I hadn’t been on the battlements-“

“I wouldn’t have jumped, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“What would you have done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say I wasn’t there at all. What would you have done?”

“Tried to find Cullen, I suppose.”

“Even panicking?”

“I would have pulled it together.”

“So you admit you overworked yourself, you were beyond tired, you have hardly eaten or slept, and your solution to breaking down is to keep working?”

“I can sleep after I’m finished.”

“ _Basra Vashedan_ ,” muttered Bull. “Foreign ideas are so stupid.”

Dorian sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m sorry that was…messy.”

“You’re apologizing for…getting overwhelmed by the frankly inhuman amount of work you’ve taken on?”

“More that you had to see it. I thought I could keep it together until I was back here.”

“So your plan was to _keep breaking yourself_ for the sake of getting a meeting in _that Cullen would have gladly rescheduled_. Then you would come back here and have a panic attack?”

“You make it sound bad.”

Bull stared at him until Dorian cracked a weary smile.

“See the thing is, I don’t even think you’re joking.”

“Bull, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, fine. Like a thunderstorm of shit is fine.”

 _“Vashe-qalab asaaranda_.”

Bull stopped talking, brought up short. Then managed: “You speak Qunlat?”

Dorian smiled smugly. “Just the bad words.”

“Fucking hell, you’re a surprise.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“How’d you learn it?”

Dorian’s stomach swooped as he thought of Hekab. “It’s not important,” he said.

“Right.”

“Anyway. I’m fine now, go away.”

“Go away?”

“Yes, away, outside if you must, though I think we both know there won’t be more assassins after that lot. Likely they’re traveling in groups. We can go after them when Adaar gets back.”

The Iron Bull looked at him strangely. “Boss isn’t going to let you go out.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s worried sick she’ll get you killed. Didn’t you notice who she’s been picking?”

“Solas,” said Dorian grimly. “And Vivienne.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The information. I’ll have words with her when she gets back.”

“She’s still the Inquisitor.”

“And I’m still here to protect her. Not the other way around.”

They stared at each other and Dorian rolled his eyes with sigh.

“Ask.”

“What?”

“Ask. What you want to ask. I can see it burning.”

“The fire.”

“Fire?”

“Burns. On your arms.”

“Why?”

“Yeah.”

Dorian paused. “Sometimes…when I’m…” he groped for the word. “Not…in complete control…pain helps…focus me.”

The Iron Bull pressed his lips together slowly and Dorian felt something thrill, crackling and electric, up his spine.

“I see.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know exactly what I’ll be like.”

“Like?” But Bull’s grin was cracking his face open, gleeful at Dorian’s capitulation.

Dorian rolled his eyes again. "You're thinking - needs control and a measure of pain?"

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"How do you know?"

"A few weeks time, you're not the only one noticing. Besides, you don’t know anything about me,” he said primly.

“You want me to guess?”

“What I’m into?”

“I bet I can.”

“I’m worried you can, to be honest. Maybe when I’m less likely to say something I’d regret.”

Immediately Iron Bull looked guilty. “I’m sorry. It was a shit thing to bring up after you-“

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Wait,” Bull crossed quickly to the tray where Dorian’s untasted food had been. “Drink this.”

Dorian scrutinized the label. “Sleeping draught?”

“With a healing potion, for the pain.”

“What pain?” As soon as Dorian had said it his body took the opportunity to remind him that it was taut as a bowstring, his head swimming with throbbing aches, his gritty eyes, his swollen tongue, his burned arm.

“Drink it.”

“I’m-“

“I’m not asking. I’m fixing. You need it.”

“ _Need_ it?”

“Another time.”

“Will you sit outside if I drink it?”

The Iron Bull considered this for a while, giving Dorian hope, before he shook his head. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“If I was an assassin, this is the ideal time to get you. While you're knocked out.”

“Ah. Yes. Well.”

“Drink it.”

Dorian drank it.

He shut his eyes and sank back into his pillows, waiting for sleep to take him. He could hear the Iron Bull moving quietly around the room, snuffing candles despite Dorian having magic and being able to do it himself. But when he raised a hand Bull shook his head.

“Nah. Save it. You still have tomorrow.”

Dorian shut his eyes and groaned.

“That’s the spirit,” Bull said cheerfully.

* * *

Friday was better. For one thing, Josephine returned after midmorning. Dorian stood in front of her desk as she reviewed his work.

“I handled the quartermaster badly,” he said at once.

“You did more than fine,” Josephine said absently, glancing through the reports. She looked up. “These are very well done. You have knowledge of managing your family’s estate?”

Dorian felt his face burn but nodded mutely, ignoring Skinner, who was cleaning her fingernails with a knife.

“Do you mind if I start funneling contract disputes your way? I’m swamped, but no one else here has the management experience.”

“I don’t know about experience,” he temporized. “I was a mage first and a reluctant heir…twentieth.”

Josephine dimpled a smile at him. “You’ve more than proven yourself.”

“Is the Inquisitor expected back soon?”

“Monday or Tuesday, I should think.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_.”

Dorian left her study, feeling his lungs inflate with relief. He held his breath as they crossed the Great Hall but coughed when he felt a hand in his robes.

“What?”

Skinner was tugging him towards the entrance to the courtyard. “Come on.”

“What? Why?”

“Come on. Chief has a surprise for you.”

Dorian felt his spine stiffen. “What kind of surprise?”

“A surprise surprise.”

“I don’t really like surprises.”

“Well, that’s tough, because Chief loves surprises.”

Dorian reluctantly followed Skinner up to the battlements.

He frowned as he passed Dalish and Rocky talking animatedly at the base of the stairs. They waved cheerfully to him as he climbed before Skinner, his curiosity piqued without his meaning.

At the top, the Iron Bull was cheerfully heaving a screaming Stitches by his belt and the back of his shirt towards the edge of the ramparts.

“What-“ was all Dorian got out before to his utter shock Bull actually threw the man over the edge. He turned on the stairs, watching a yawning Dalish casting a lazy energy displacement spell. Stitches slowed, his fall becoming more controlled as Dalish carefully set him down. He didn't stop screaming though. On the ground, Rocky was laughing, slapping the shaken man on the back.

“Dorian!” The Iron Bull seemed pleased to see him. “Come on. You can go after Krem.”

“I’m ready Chief,” said Krem cheerfully.

Dorian wasn’t sure if he had ever seen Krem out of full plate, but he was wearing a leather jerkin and rough homespun pants. The Iron Bull picked him up easily and heaved him towards the edge.

“One,” chanted the Chargers.

“Nah,” called Krem. “One’s enough.”

Without any warning at all Bull threw him off the side. Krem went down laughing. Dalish cursed.

“A little warning would be nice!” She caught him anyway.

Dorian suspected the ease of her spells came from long practice.

“You ready?” Bull asked.

Dorian stared at him. “You want to throw me off a wall?”

“Yep.”

“And I would agree to this why…”

“Team building,” sighed Skinner, lining herself up with a face at Dorian. Bull didn’t even need two hands, and she flew farther out than either of the men before her.

Dalish caught her fingers quickly with her own, and Dorian blinked as Skinner actually _smiled_.

“Knock it off!” bellowed Bull over the side.

They both flipped him off in tandem.

“Your turn.”

“ _My_ turn?”

“Yeah. Unless you want Grim going first? Grim?”

Grim shrugged, unaffected.

Dorian held out an expansive hand and watched Grim deal with the whole process stoically and didn't make a sound as he sailed over the edge. His expression was apropos.

Dorian shook his head. “What on earth is this supposed to accomplish?”

“Control exercises. Run them for the team. Trust. That sort of thing.”

“Hmm,” said Dorian.

“Your day was better. I know it.”

Dorian sighed. “Skinner?”

“Yeah. She managed to slip me intel.”

“How comforting to know the Qun spy is spying on me.”

The Iron Bull grinned his wide, white not-smile.

“Fine,” Dorian shrugged. “Fine! I’ll play.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. I’ll prove to you that I can be flexible.”

“Oh you don’t have to prove that to me,” said Bull pleasantly, but with that kind of smile that had Dorian breaking out into goosebumps again. He pretended not to notice.

“I’m going to pick you up, then heave you on three.”

Dorian’s stomach fluttered, as the Iron Bull picked him up by the back of the robes and the leather around his waist. Suddenly the ramparts seemed much higher. Below him the Chargers had started to cheer and clap. Everyone was watching him and Dorian felt his calm fray rapidly.

“One,” said Bull.

“Wait,” Dorian tried to say, but his voice was jammed in his throat as Bull heaved him towards the side. He could see the blurred outlines of people on the ground as his heart went into overdrive.

“Two,” said Bull.

Dorian felt like he might throw up. He felt his muscles jerk in preparation. He could do this: don’t panic. It would be worse if he panicked. It would be mortifying if he panicked. He could feel his breath coming faster. _How stupid,_ he told himself. He wouldn’t even die from this height, probably. Even if Dalish missed him, what, a broken –

“Three.”

“No!”

Bull pulled up short and Dorian slammed into the stones on the floor as Bull turned, trying to keep the momentum from flinging Dorian off the parapet. He lay to the ground hearing the cheerful booing of the Chargers below.

“Are you okay?”

Dorian couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. He was hyperventilating while his mind concurrently ran an angry litany of idiocy. _Why couldn’t you just shut up? Why couldn’t you just play the game?_ While at the same time his mind was screaming _shut up shut up shut UP_ at the sounds around him, from the keening wind to the good-natured jeers. All he wanted was to hide. To _hide._ He could hear his breath coming raggedly from his mouth and wanted to shut it against the embarrassing sound of panic.

“Dorian?”

“I-“ Dorian felt a hand on his arm, it was burningly hot and he jerked up to sitting his face wild, even as he tried to school it. “I – “

“Ah,” said the Iron Bull. “Shit. I was afraid of this.”

Dorian lunged for the chance to fight instead of dissemble. “ _Afraid of this?”_

“You said you had control issues. I wanted to see how far. When you agreed to it, I thought maybe I had been wrong.”

“I –“ Dorian could still hear the catcalls from the ground. Could feel the crisp wind on his hot skin, the tearing sound from the wet rattle in his lungs. The ringing of steel, a door slamming. Bull’s careful eye _studying his reaction_. Dorian didn’t think. He only fade-stepped away, through the nearest tower and then kept fade-stepping with every new turning, nearly breaking his neck in his movement and yet unable to slow down needing to _run_ and knowing with a vicious victory he was leaving the Iron Bull behind.

But where to go?

Bull would find him in his room. He needed somewhere empty. Somewhere quiet.

He could hear the shouts of the Chargers behind him now; not joking. Spreading out. Looking for him. His prey drive kicked in higher even as he cursed his stupid fast-beating heart, his spinning head, his shallow gasps. He banged through the nearest door into a single staircase that led down. He clattered down it, guiding himself with one hand to the stone wall. The staircase emptied out into the cells. They were empty. Dorian had only been there once before, to try to rationalize with Alexius. A startled guard glanced at him.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’m just inspecting the edges,” he managed.

“Mage, are you?”

“Yes.”

“For the repairs, yeah? They had a crew down here that said it wasn’t safe.”

Dorian nodded. His lie had been poor to begin with, so he let her weave one for him.

“Right this way, I’ll point it out.”

“I can manage.”

“Right you are.”

“And…” Dorian hesitated. “I’m not to be disturbed. Can cause…”

“Shifting?”

“Yes.”

“Right, and that would be bad.”

Dorian blinked.

“It was a joke.”

“Oh.” His brain was railing at him. _Laugh you idiot_. “Ha.”

He followed her vague hand gesture towards the back cells, open to the sky. He carefully picked his way across the stone and could feel it shift beneath his feet. Instead of terrifying him, it only comforted. Good. No one else could come after him.

Dorian sat down in the rubble, his brain railing at him to be sensible, that this was stupid, that by delaying Iron Bull or the Chargers finding him he was only creating more difficulty for himself later. He ignored it. He didn’t care. Right now he was finally alone, and the world was quiet.

Dorian waited for hours, half expecting to be found and half-glorying in his hiding spot. He watched the sun set and the blooming violet of twilight bleed into night. He knew he should get back to his room. He was thoroughly chilled from the mountain air and his hours of sitting. His breathing had calmed and he turned to look over his shoulder and started.

“Hello,” said the person sitting there.

“Andraste’s ass,” Dorian managed. “How long have you been there?”

“A while.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I wasn’t breathing.”

Dorian closed his eyes a moment, listening, then shook his head and opened it. “What do you want, Cole?”

The boy wasn’t wearing his floppy hat. His hair looked tangled and windblown. Dorian wondered if he washed it, or if he didn’t have to. He had one knee propped up how he liked to sit. “I don’t want anything.”

“What are you doing here?” Dorian clarified.

“The Iron Bull asked me to find you.”

“And you did.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Bull when you found me?”

“He didn’t ask me that.”

“I see.”

“Would you like me to tell him?”

Dorian wearily scrubbed at his face, imagining the Chargers combing the castle. “Yes, you’d better.”

“Okay.”

Dorian blinked, but Cole was gone. When had it grown so dark?

He pushed himself to his feet and froze, half crouched, when the masonry shifted. Very carefully, he picked his way back to safety.

The guard was still in the cells, leaning back on two legs in her chair. It came down with a thump. “Well?” she asked.

Dorian realized she expected results. “I’ll have to come back,” he said vaguely.

“Oh,” she seemed disappointed, like Dorian might have built a new section of castle alone in a few hours. “Right.”

Dorian made his way in the most roundabout route possible to his room. When he turned down the hall his heart leapt in his throat to see the wooden chair outside his door, but then calmed again when it was empty.

He gingerly opened the door, expecting the Iron Bull to be inside, but his room was empty and dark. Dorian entered quietly and then shut the door behind him. He leaned against his hands and hung his head, breathing out a long quiet sound in the dark.

Today had been a disaster.

He would go to bed. He would sleep in. He would go to work. He would take work from Josephine and Solas and Vivienne. If one of the Chargers were on the chair outside the room in the morning, he wouldn’t mention today at all and hope they would follow his lead.

There was a sharp stunning pain and Dorian found himself tumbling onto the floor even as he brought the fireplace roaring to life, the lanterns lighting themselves.

The Iron Bull stood in the doorway, looking shocked.

“Fuck,” said Dorian, pushing himself to sitting. He put a hand on the back of his head. “That hurt.”

Bull crossed the space in a few short strides and pulled Dorian bodily up by his arms, setting him on his feet gently. He didn’t let go of Dorian’s arms though, only peered into his face. “Don’t,” he said, in a calm and pleasant voice that had Dorian wishing he had shouted. “ _Ever._ Do that. Again.”

Dorian opened his mouth to say something – anything – a refutation, an apology. What came out was a harsh breath.

“Okay,” said Bull at once. He changed his tone completely. “Okay. Come on. Sit down.”

Dorian tried to jerk out of the guiding feel of Bull's hot hands against his suddenly freezing skin. Tried to draw another breath, but everything he thought he had solved had only been delayed until this confrontation.

He felt warm hands on his shoulders and he jerked, shivering beneath the touch.

“I -” he tried to say.

“You told me you’re panicking. You’re lacking control. Right?”

Dorian nodded, swallowing.

“So we need to make a space for you to relinquish control –“

Dorian squeaked.

“On a very small scale.” The Iron Bull was keeping his hands on Dorian’s shoulders and Dorian was vibrating beneath them, trying hard not to shake them off.

“If you let me, I can make a space for you. To take the edge off, the way you normally do with pain.”

Dorian nodded fractionally.

“Can you let your shoulders down?”

Dorian crackled a laugh.

“Easy. Just a bit at a time.”

Dorian heaved a huge breath to the bottoms of his lungs and then forced his muscles to unclench. They didn’t unwind.

“Good. That’s good.”

Dorian wanted to blush at the praise, but his breath was still stoppering up his throat.

Bull started moving his hands over Dorian’s shoulders and Dorian tensed up immediately.

“Can I go under your collar?”

Dorian hesitated, then nodded.

Warm hands beneath the back of his robes, over his neck. Dorian hissed.

"You're too cold." The Iron Bull flattened his large hands over the top of Dorian's back, and he leaned into the heat, suddenly tired.

“Good. That's good. If you can just let down your shoulders.”

Dorian forced his shoulders down. It hurt. He felt warm thumbs skating over his back, then up his neck. Dorian shivered beneath the pressure, feeling it ground him. His breathing slowed.

“I guess you don’t get a lot of people rubbing your neck, huh?” asked Bull when he pressed too hard and Dorian winced.

“No.”

“Hey,” Bull seemed pleased to hear Dorian’s voice. It was the first thing Dorian had said, and it unstoppered something inside of him. “I’m sorry. Maker, I’m sorry. It was stupid. And I shouldn't have run away like some sort of _idiot._ I should have let you toss me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I –“

“It was too fast. I was reckless. I wanted to test your limits even though I knew this was probably too much. I didn’t reckon on the fact you’d let yourself get hurt rather than speak up.”

“But you let me go.”

“And you got hurt.”

“A scrape.”

Bull’s thumbs rested in the fluttering hollows behind Dorian’s ears. Neither spoke, despite knowing Dorian was answering the wrong comment on purpose.

“We’re going to have to work on that,” Bull said after a moment.

“On what?”

“You telling me no.”

“I tell you no all the time, you just don’t listen.”

The Iron Bull was angling Dorian’s head as he dug his fingers into the knots in Dorian’s neck. Dorian was suddenly confused. How had this become a neck massage? Hadn’t it been about grounding?

“I always listen when you mean it. But we can have a word too, to make sure.”

Dorian tried to turn around, to face Bull, but all he managed to do was wrench his neck so that he made a sound in the back of his throat.

“Turn your head for me?”

Dorian tilted and his shoulder popped up.

“Your range of motion is pitiful.”

“I get by.”

“I can go a lot of ways with a line like that. Turn all the way around.”

Dorian turned all the way around, frowning in confusion, and then he saw Bull’s beaming expression. He swatted him halfheartedly, pulling his hand back midswing when he realized he would make contact with Bull’s skin. It was warm under his quickly withdrawn hand.

Bull has taken Dorian’s face in his hands and was angling it on his neck, his other long fingers probing at the muscles.

“Your poor head.”

“Now _I_ can go a lot of ways with a line like _that._ ”

“How long have you had headaches?”

“What?”

“Headaches?”

“Oh.” Dorian had to think about it. “All my life, I think. Since puberty for sure.”

“When did you realize?”

“Realize?”

“Other people don’t have the same headaches.”

Dorian stared at him, his face slowly flushing under Bull’s careful thumbs moving to his temples and pressing in, ever so gently, so that something in Dorian’s jaw spasmed in pain.

“Older.”

“How old?”

“After I became a mage. I thought it was…I thought it was a price of magic. Or alcohol. Or something.”

“Or something,” Bull smiled and Dorian wanted to curse internally for raising another flag for the Iron Bull to grasp.

“I-“ Dorian carefully detangled himself from the Iron Bull’s grip and stepped back. “I’m okay, now, I think. It was my fault. I’m sorry for the ramparts-“

“Hey-“

“I mean it. I just don’t think I had gotten all my anxiety out from yesterday, is all.”

Bull sighed. “Of course you didn’t. You wouldn't let me help, and you didn’t exercise it in any way so it just sat curled up and waiting.”

Dorian ignored this. “You sent Cole after me.”

“Yeah. Was afraid you’d do something dumb.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“So you said.”

“And I meant it.”

“But you ran anyway, _knowing_ you have people out to control and kill you.”

Dorian paused. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I forgot.”

The Iron Bull looked as if he waned to pick apart Dorian’s last two words, but he only took in a huge breath and stared at Dorian with a blazing, infuriated, desperate look as he breathed out of his nostrils. Then he sighed more normally.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Oh,” said Dorian, taking the warm and dry clothes he was being handed. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I started this story in the midst of my Big Editing month for my book as a distraction. Sometimes it was a good distraction, and sometimes I needed to squeak out a little time before finishing this chapter. As a bonus, I've added an extra chapter. Also snuck in the smut.

Dorian squinted against the light. He drew a pillow over his face grumpily, then threw it across the room. _Daylight?_ What time was it?

He had aimed the pillow towards the armchair where Iron Bull sat, but when Dorian sat up, the pillow was on the floor, the armchair neatly returned to its twin in front of the fireplace. The Iron Bull was gone.

Dorian stood, and then abruptly sat down at his vision blacked out. He blinked, tried again, and snapped the door inwards, half expecting the wooden chair to be empty as well. Grim turned to look at him from where he was leaning with one leg up against the wall, arms crossed.

“When did you get here?” snapped Dorian.

Grim shrugged.

“When did the Iron Bull leave?”

Grim gave a small tight smile that made Dorian scowl.

“Oh shut up.”

Grim shrugged one shoulder.

“It’s not like that, and you know it.”

Grim shrugged again.

“Be quiet.” Dorian slammed his door shut to get dressed.

It was midmorning before he reported to the library, blinking at the late sunshine. His books had been reshelved by an over eager research assistant and Dorian spent time finding them again and settling down to notes. He received a stack of contracts from Josephine after a lunch of a pear. It was sweet and fresh, newly imported and the only one left in the bowl.

Grim snorted.

Dorian ignored him.

That evening he opened the door to his rooms with a distracted hand, his eyes still scanning documents.

“Dorian.”

Dorian jumped slightly, checking reflexively over his shoulder for Grim. Or was it Rocky now?

“What are _you_ doing here?” he asked waspishly.

The Iron Bull smiled. It was his usual not-smile. “I’m taking evenings.”

“What?”

“I said-“

“I heard what you said.”

“And?”

“And no! Absolutely not. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Shut the door.”

Dorian shut the door unthinkingly, then scowled at Bull’s face.

“And tell Grim to stop being _so_ communicative.”

“Yeah. He does alright for a guy who doesn’t talk.”

“He has a very expressive face.”

“So do you.”

Unexpectedly Dorian blushed, and the Iron Bull tasted his tongue a few times, moving his mouth in a way like he was savoring the victory.

“You,” started Dorian, but gave up. “Anyway. I need to finish this.”

“What is it?”

“A contract for Josephine.”

“No.”

“ _No?”_

“No.”

“I can’t very well tell her _no_.”

“I mean she’ll understand you not getting it done _in a day.”_

“But she gave it to me. Expects it back –“

“Dorian.”

“Don’t _Dorian_ me.”

They stared at each other before the Iron Bull carefully crossed the gloomy room and tugged the sheaf of paper from Dorian’s fingers. There was a tense moment when his fingers wouldn’t let go, but seeing how pleased _that_ made the Iron Bull, he relinquished them with a scowl.

“It’s dark in here,” he said in annoyance, and lit the lanterns and fire with a wave. “You could have turned on the lights.”

The Iron Bull pointed at the vanity and Dorian groaned.

“Look, if you came to the Rest on time, I wouldn’t make you.”

“I don’t eat in the Rest.”

“Yeah, and you don’t eat here either, though I’ve had a word with Verity.”

“Who the hell is Verity?”

“Your maid.”

Dorian flushed slightly. He wasn’t used to serving staff having names. He had never bothered to learn hers, as he never saw her. She laid the fire or cleaned the trash when he was out of the room, but she didn't usually wait on him. Dorian sighed.

“What did you tell her?”

“To bring you a tray every night and every morning.”

“I’m not eating _breakfast_.”

“My guys have instructions to lock you in here until you do.”

“That’s very stupid.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“I told you, yesterday was – an aberration. I apologized for losing control. But I don’t need to be fed like a child.”

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

“What?”

“ _Parshaara_. Enough. Sit. We’re going to have a talk.”

Stubbornly, Dorian crossed his arms and refused to sit. The Iron Bull tasted something on his tongue again, and Dorian, face flaming, sank into one of the armchairs sourly.

“You don’t need to look _so_ smug,” he informed Bull.

“Yeah,” said Bull, very smugly. “I know.”

“You know-“ Dorian began just as the Iron Bull said:

“Listen-“

They both stopped and stared at one another, but Dorian beat him to speaking. “You know you can’t just make me do things I don’t want to do.”

“Luckily, what you want to do is not at issue.”

“What I _want_ is to be left alone.”

“A pity that you don’t always get what you want.”

Dorian glared at him. “You could just let me go.”

“And if you died? That’s my ass on the line to Adaar.”

“Why do you even care what she thinks? Tal-Vashoth.”

The Iron Bull was silent a moment, rubbing the base of a horn. He was staring into the fire, and Dorian realized the room was cold. He glanced around for the contract he had been working on, but Bull had squirreled it somewhere out of sight.

“Do you know what Adaar means?”

The question caught Dorian off guard. “What?”

“Her name. Adaar.”

“No.”

“It means weapon. Or really, it’s hard to translate, something like ship mounted canon.”

“A loose canon?” 

Bull sighed out, blustery and tired. “More like a fire-thrower. Like she is. They named her fire thrower and she turned out as a mage who throws fire.”

“So?”

“So in the Qun…you’re named for your work. For your job. That’s why I was one of a few Hissrads. Descriptors, you know?”

“And? Adaar is descriptive?”

“And she’s Tal-Vashoth. Named before she showed her promise. It’s just…it’s weird. She grew into her name.”

“And are you hoping you might actually turn to iron?”

The Iron Bull flashed him bared teeth in his patented not-smile, but subsided, still rubbing at his head.

“I’m just thinking.”

“ _Thinking?_ I thought you might just boss me around.”

“Yeah,” said Bull slowly. “That’s why I’m thinking.”

Immediately, Dorian was wary. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you would just obey-“

“ _Obey?_ Certainly not-“

“If I could really just boss you around, life would be a lot easier.”

“Easier. Less fun.”

“Are you really having fun? Fighting every step of the way?”

Dorian jutted out his chin and then shivered in his seat.

“Blanket’s behind you.”

Dorian threw his hand up over his shoulder and found a blanket folded atop the armchair. He was almost positive he hadn’t left one there. Without comment, he pulled it down and settled it over his lap, huddling into it as the cold air gusted over him.

“You love bossing people around,” Dorian said, but he heard how weak it was, not matching the resonance of their conversation wavering in the air like the deep stringed sounds of a fading cello.

“Not really.” Bull was still speaking absently. He had dropped his hand and was twining his knuckles together as he stared blankly into the fire. It reflected on his eyepatch, oiled with something to make it waterproof. “I like working with people to figure out what they need.”

“Need,” scoffed Dorian.

“Oh yeah. I said we’d get back to that. Yeah. Need. You _need_ stuff. Even if you don’t realize it. Or actually, that you do realize it but are lying to yourself to make it less painful.”

“An academic,” said Dorian sourly. “Hissrad, the one that thinks.”

“I’m pretty good at sussing out what people need. Mostly because – like we were talking with the flags – people tell you without words a lot.”

“Oh really?” Dorian’s arms were prickling with goosebumps. _From the cold_ he reminded his skin waspishly. Only from the cold and not from the prickly tension between them.

“Sure. You shivered. You needed a blanket.”

“Hardly magister academia.”

“An easy example.”

“And a more difficult one?”

The Iron Bull sighed again, still twining his fingers. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “We talked a little about it. You need a space to feel safe.”

Dorian’s back immediately stiffened at the implication. “And I said this room.”

“Yeah. And now I’m in the room.”

“And I don’t want you to be.”

“But you opened the door.”

“Not to you.”

“Sort of to me. To Krem. Asked someone to come in because you’re lonely. You need help.”

“Need,” sneered Dorian, and he was annoyed it was still weak. Annoyed the goosebumps had burst across his shoulders.

“Yeah. And when you were panicking –“

“Which I apologized for.”

“Which you shouldn’t have to apologize for-“

“But you didn’t have to –“

“To what?”

Dorian blushed, and then leaned forward too, towards the firelight, hoping his skin would only reflect the dancing yellow light and none of the red. “To take care of me.”

“That’s my job.”

Dorian felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. His fingers clutched the blanket beneath the shade of its protection. “No it’s not.”

“No,” conceded the Iron Bull after a moment. “It’s not.”

Dorian felt his cheeks growing warmer, shame creeping up his neck like a strangling vine. “You didn’t have to do any of it. All you had to do what shut me in my room and wait outside and I would have been _fine.”_

The Iron Bull casually leaned into the space between their chairs and reached out. He wrapped his fingers around one of Dorian's forearms.

Dorian looked away, hating the reminder. “You wouldn’t have known.”

“I’d have found out.” The Iron Bull said this pleasantly, but Dorian felt his whole body shiver with it.

“You could have just let me –“

“Hurt yourself?”

“ _Manage_ it.”

“You’re really terrible at that, you know.”

“What?”

“You think of living as managing it.”

“So?”

“So. You should be gentler. Living is for fun.”

Dorian sneered before he could catch his face. “So what, you want to manage my life for me? And it’s not even your job?”

“No.”

Dorian paused, derailed.

“I did it…” and Iron Bull hesitated only briefly. “Because I care about you.”

“ _What?”_

That elicited a real smile, a crooked half grin working its way up Bull’s face.

“Yeah. I guess I caught you by surprise. But it’s shitty to see someone that you like suffering.”

“ _Suffering_ ,” sputtered Dorian.

“Unhappy?”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Dorian couldn’t help it, he laughed, the brittle mood between them breaking down like a dam, letting an undercurrent of something warm bathe his skin, settling it.

“You wanted to have a talk,” he said at last, into the comfortable silence as they both stared into the fire. “So talk.”

“I wanted to come to some agreements.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Give you some of the freedoms you want back.”

“In exchange for?”

“For some promises. Goes both ways. If you break yours, I break mine.”

“Fine. No one else in my room.”

“And my counter is that I can be.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because why?”

“Because,” and Dorian felt the truth on the edge of his tongue, angry and scared. “Because…I don’t want you to see.”

“To see what?” Even. Measured.

Goosebumps.

“You…you’re too quick to see, I think. The flags and the behavior and the profiling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t going to try to stop?”

“I’m just built like that. It’d be a lie to say I could.”

“Built like that, or _made_ like that?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Either way. And what does it matter? I could guess.”

“Guessing is different than knowing.”

“Are you afraid?”

Dorian hesitated, then told the truth, his arms freezing beneath the blanket. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Dorian groped for the words. “Because very young I was taught to play The Game. And to never show the cost.”

“And you think if I know the cost to you, I’ll exploit it?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

The Iron Bull was silent a long moment, but when he spoke, his voice was deeper, rougher. “You can ask any of my guys.”

“But I’m not one of your guys.”

“Not yet.”

“My, captain. Are you trying to recruit me?”

“Something like that.”

Dorian heard the entendre and ignored it, even as his lips twitched as he battled a smile. “I’m afraid if you see the cost,” he said slowly, testing the words for the truth even before they left his lips, “then you might try to fix it.”

“And that would be…bad?”

“That would be…hard.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Dorian pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, drawing his feet off the ground. He was _freezing._ The castle was hardly insulated, even on the inside, and total stone in the snowy mountaintops in winter would be the death of him. “Because if you did it, and it was easy…”

“Then you’re left wondering why no one ever did it before?”

Dorian nodded. “Or why I could never just…do it.”

“Sometimes things are impossible for someone to do for themselves.”

“But you don’t _need_ to do it,” and Dorian stressed the word. “You could just –“

“Shut my eyes?”

“Eye. Singular. But yes.”

“I like you,” said Bull again, this time folding his arms across his chest. “And unfortunately for you, we’re in a scenario where I control a lot of your life.”

“You love it,” Dorian accused.

“You don’t.”

He paused a moment. “No,” he said finally. “I hate it.”

“Why? Some people…they like being taken care of. Like the certainty.”

“Some people have never had their father taking care of them,” said Dorian so bitterly he wished the acid on his tongue could have burned a hole in the floor and dropped him in it. What a stupid thing to say into the waiting silence. Five hundred flags.

“Ah,” said Bull at last. “You don’t want to feel-“

“Like a prisoner-“

Just as Bull said, “Managed.”

“What?” Dorian blurted.

“So you don’t manage yourself either. Rebellion, forcing him to do every little thing for you. Making looking after you a chore.”

Dorian looked away. Bull saw so clearly.

“You know he’s not here. You could eat.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Because you’re out of practice. You made living a chore so the person who kept you had to suffer. But you had to suffer too.”

“It was worth it,” sneered Dorian, horrified to hear his own voice.

“And now? When you’re alone? When there’s no possibility of you hurting him?”

“I guess…I forgot. And shut up,” Dorian added quickly, seeing Bull’s small, proud smile in the firelight. “ _You_ haven’t done anything.”

“I know. It was all you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Maybe later.”

“Ugh,” Dorian made a frustrated sound of disgust as he twined deeper into the blanket. “And why aren’t you freezing? It’s not fair.”

“Hot blooded. Right. Now to business.”

“No people in my room!”

“I agreed.”

“You said you.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t agree!”

“How about we shelve it.”

“Oh sure, this is an agreement of equals.”

“You have to eat, you know. That’s one of my stipulations.”

“Fine.”

“And you can choose, if you want. Eat here, or at the Rest.”

“I said fine!”

“Breakfast too.”

“Fine.”

“I’m honestly surprised I’m getting so far without you interrupting.” The Iron Bull sounded suspicious.

“I’m waiting,” said Dorian grimly.

“For what?”

“To negotiate the harder things.”

“The harder things?”

Dorian waited, and Bull smiled his half smile again, and stood up from the armchair to pace the short few steps in front of the fireplace.

Dorian closed his eyes a moment, the brightness of the firelight behind his eyelids interrupted with great moving shadows as Bull passed back and forth. He jumped at the feeling of a hand on his head. He hadn’t heard Bull move behind his chair. Every instinct in Dorian screamed at him to _flee_ , but he held himself still as Bull slid his hands into Dorian’s hair and gently tugged his face upwards, so that he was watching him, and couldn’t look away.

Dorian felt a jerk, and forced his hips not to bounce. By the Iron Bull’s smile, he had only been partially successful, even under the blanket.

“Are you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“I need to know when it gets bad.”

“Gets bad?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Humor me.”

“Fine. When you think you’re even _close_ to coming apart-“

“Now hang on-“

“Not just when you’re in the middle of it. When you feel the symptoms –“

“I don’t know-“

“When you even feel more than an ordinary bit of frustration.”

“Frustration?”

“You do know,” said the Iron Bull, talking conversationally down to Dorian’s face as if it were the most normal position in the world, “that extreme anger or frustration is a type of panic?”

Dorian felt his mouth twist. “That’s not true.”

“Really? And have you ever told yourself you’re overreacting? That it’s stupid, that you should calm down, and then still felt just irrationally angry?”

Dorian’s eyes cut away, preferring to look at the ceiling than the truth.

“Okay then,” said Iron Bull pleasantly. “We need a phrase.”

“A phrase?”

“Or a word.”

“A safeword?”

“Yeah, but it’s not for that.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” and the Iron Bull smiled at him, a grimace and a tease at the same time. “I have a special one for that.”

“So you want me to pick a conversational safeword forgetting overwhelmed? And let go.” Dorian tugged irritably with his chin, and to his surprise the Iron Bull released his head and came around the chair.

Dorian felt foolish sitting wrapped in a blanket and shrugged it off, standing, and then instantly regretted their closeness, the heat rolling off Bull’s skin. He shivered.

“How many of these do you have?” he asked, rubbing his hair where Bull’s fingers had been.

“What? Safewords?”

“Yeah. Outside of sex.” Dorian felt a thrill just admitting it between them, then almost immediately railed at himself for acting like a child saying a forbidden word.

“A couple. Maybe a dozen. Some for the Chargers.”

“And you remember them all?”

A nod.

“What if you forget?”

“I won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Haven’t forgotten one yet.”

“And they use them?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they know about each others?”

“I won’t tell anyone yours, if that’s what you mean.”

Dorian waited, and Bull shrugged half a shoulder. “Sometimes. Krem knows most of the Chargers. They’re more liberal with them with each other since they all have them. Will tell someone to shut up and add the safeword to it so they know they aren’t messing around. For people like Adaar, I don’t-“

“People like _the Inquisitor_.”

Bull shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You set boundaries with _the Inquisitor_.”

“Mostly about Tal Vashoth stuff. Didn’t want to make it weird again.”

“Fucking hell.”

The Iron Bull smiled with half his mouth. “I can’t tell if you’re mad or confused.”

“Both. All. I didn’t realize – that so many people….fuck.”

“I am sorry,” said Bull sincerely, moving to the vanity. Dorian followed unthinkingly. “That you haven’t had good people in your life who let you set boundaries.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Dorian, automatically, but then really thought about what Bull had said. “Actually, I might.”

The Iron Bull flashed him a smile again as he rearranged the tray.

With a sigh, Dorian moved next to him and began picking at the food with his fingers.

“There are forks, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I am a savage,” said Dorian absently.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Hmm?”

“The word. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Can be a fruit. Or a random thing.”

“What about a phrase?”

“Nothing common.”

“I can’t do this?”

“Nah. You might say that about something Josephine assigns you.”

“You should see what Josephine assigns me.”

“I mean it. Overwhelm only.”

“I’m seeing red,” said Dorian faintly.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just something my father used to say, and I would know he meant it.”

The Iron Bull said nothing, and Dorian shook himself.

“How about red?”

“Just the color?”

“I can use it in a sentence, if you prefer.”

“What if you use it accidentally? That flower is red, or whatever?”

“You want a response phrase?”

And this time the Iron Bull’s insouciant smile was so filthy Dorian groaned around the half inhaled roll in his mouth. “Don’t. And you can ask how red, and I’ll say regular red if I didn’t mean to drop it.”

“Practice?’

“Really?”

“Stupid not to.”

“I’m not, you know.”

“Red?”

“Yes.”

“Pretend.”

“Fine. Oh, Bull, please help me. I’m very red.”

This time Bull laughed darkly enough for Dorian to throw a napkin his way. “Rude bastard you are.”

“Fine, fine, I just thought it’d be more subtle.”

“I’ve got a red doublet at home?”

“Something like that.”

“Fine. Now we’ve practiced.”

“How red a doublet?”

Dorian sighed, then picked up a fork. “Scarlet.”

“Good,” Bull beamed. “And now the plan.”

“The _plan?”_

“For when you get to red. What should we do?”

“Maker’s breath _I_ don’t know. If I knew, I would do it!”

“You want to come here.”

“Yes, I want to come here. And…I don’t know.”

“Hot or cold?”

“What?”

“When you get overwhelmed? Do you want something hot to drink? A blanket? Or water and a cold washcloth?”

The thoughtfulness, the intimacy behind the gesture made Dorian put his spoon down and round on the Iron Bull.

“Stop,” he said firmly.

“What?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s…too much.”

“Okay.” Then, after a silent moment, Bull ventured. “I’ve got one more.”

“Fuck.”

“Just one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I said I’d be here every evening.”

“You don’t-“

“Have to, I know. I want to. We gotta make a space for you to…feel safe in.”

“Why does this sound suspiciously like house arrest?”

“No, no, nothing like that. More like the wall thing.”

“ _No_. Not again. You can't throw me off a building.”

“Smaller scale. Just us,” the Iron Bull smiled guiltily. “Went too hard on the last one. I learned.”

“What do you mean?”

“Figured, every day, you come in here –“

“Eat dinner, yes I _know_.”

“And we do something new.”

Dorian felt his eyebrows go up. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, if you want.”

Dorian blinked down at the remains of his dinner, then up at the Iron Bull. “Are you…coming onto me?”

The Iron Bull, insultingly, began to laugh.

“What?” Dorian snapped, stung. “That’s how it sounded.”

“I meant it more as…we do something you’ve never done before.”

“You’re not making it _better_.”

“Well? What do you want to do?”

“What, and I suppose you’re just going to offer to suck my dick?”

A pause.

“If you like.”

Dorian flushed furiously. The Iron Bull had called his bluff.

Bull’s self-satisfied smile ratcheted up the side of his face until he stretched a white, invisible scar along his upper lip.

“Well what did _you_ have in mind?” huffed Dorian.

“No, no, I want to hear what you’ve been thinking about.”

“Do shut up.”

“I knew you wanted privacy for something, I just didn’t know it was to-“

“Stop!” Dorian snapped, then covered his face with a hand for a brief moment before pushing it back through his hair.

The Iron Bull stopped, his smile disappearing.

The silence thickened, and the seriousness courted it.

“ _Is_ that what you meant?” Dorian asked finally.

The Iron Bull looked away, his mouth grimacing.

“Do you mean, would I force myself on you while you were under my care?” asked Bull bitterly.

“I didn’t mean-“

“Sounded like it.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Why not?” Bull asked tightly. “You think the worst of me for everything else.”

Dorian stood. He stepped out of the chair where it was tucked into the vanity and put out a tentative hand to Bull’s arm.

“I’m not used to,” he said quietly, “people…”

“Caring?”

“Giving a shit what I want,” Dorian finished tightly. “Only what they want of me.”

“Look,” said Bull. “I’ve been a mercenary a long time. And a soldier before that. And a spy my whole life.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And,” said Bull, with an edge to his voice to remind Dorian not to interrupt. “Your dad and this blood thing? It’s one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some fucked up shit.”

Dorian felt his eyes prickle with shame and something so hot and flooding it took him a second to place it. His fingers were still tight on Bull’s arm, but he pulled his gaze away from Bull’s honest one to the side, staring at the glinting metal of Bull’s harness piece in the lantern light. Relief.

The sheer validation of the statement had exhausted Dorian.

He belatedly let go of Bull’s arm and turned away, but a hand caught his shoulder, turning him back around. The mood was frayed, electric with static, and Bull’s other hand came up gently under Dorian’s chin, tilting his throat up to look at Bull, a warm hand curving around the back of his neck.

“Like this,” he murmured, almost too softly for Dorian to hear. “Do you trust me?”

A pause. Dorian wanted to placate him, to say _yes._

“No.”

To his surprise, the Iron Bull’s smiled curved on both sides of his face. “Honesty. You’re learning.”

“Would you have believed me if I had said yes?”

“No.”

“So what’s the point of lying?”

The Iron Bull stepped closer, the motion small and yet looming. Dorian could feel his heart quickening under Bull’s fingertips. By the way Bull grinned, he could feel it too.

“Because,” he murmured. “Being honest is how I earn it.”

“ _Earn_ it?” Dorian didn’t miss the inflection.

The Iron Bull flashed his not-smile, and Dorian suddenly realized he was tipping his face up the way he might –

“Very well,” he said crossly, yanking himself out of Bull's grasp. Bull allowed him to stand a few paces away as Dorian crossed his arms. “What did you have in mind?”

“I thought we’d sit by the fire, and you can tell me a drunk story.”

“A drunk story?”

“Of when you got wildly drunk.”

“ _That’s_ the new thing?”

“And I’ll have my hand on your arm.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you flinch whenever anyone tries to touch you.”

Dorian flinched, then glared.

The Iron Bull smiled angelically and held a hand out to the armchairs by the fire. When Dorian sat in his usual one, he was surprised when Bull put the back of his own chair to the fire, side by side with the arm of the other chair but facing one another, so that he could watch the door.

“This is worse,” Dorian complained, as Bull’s blue ringed eye flicked quickly over his face then scanned the room.

“Shut up,” said Bull easily, and laid his huge palm over the upturned inside of Dorian’s forearm. It was burningly hot, and Dorian realized belatedly this was the arm he had burned. He glared at Bull, who was pretending to scan the door for weakness.

“Tell your story.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“The faster you tell it –“

“Fine, fine.”

Dorian thought, then launched into a story about his graduation to full mage. He skirted the ceremonial aspects, specifically the phylactery, and focused instead about getting rip-roaringly drunk, wearing a guard helmet, and climbing up a statue to piss over the side. Bull was an appreciative audience. He chuckled in all the right places, egging Dorian on and asking questions like “what did they say?”

Dorian had planned to keep the story short and sweet, shaking off Bull’s burning fingers, too casually resting in the crook of his elbow keeping time with his heart. But the story dragged on, and Dorian was happy to relate it. He realized partway through it was the first time since he had arrived at Skyhold he had hung out with someone in the evening, the way friends might. The thought sobered him, and he trailed off.

Bull followed suit, still chuckling, then, very carefully, lifted his hand. “See?” he said cheekily. “Not so bad.”

“I suppose it’s going to get worse.”

“Trying to work up to holding down your shoulders, in case you get panicky again.”

Dorian bristled at the mere idea, but forced himself to breathe out when Bull started laughing.

“Well? Did I earn my reprieve?”

Bull looked at him a long moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ll be outside.”

Dorian was surprised to feel a stab of…loneliness when Bull took the wooden chair outside the door. It was all perfectly ridiculous, of course. It was _better_ to have privacy. To have comfort. Dorian reminded himself of this firmly as he bathed and readied for bed. It was only as he was falling asleep, blinking sleepily at the armchairs backlit by the fire did he realize that Bull’s chair was still facing the wrong way around. He sighed, closed his eyes, and fixed it himself in the morning, feeling a mixture of annoyance and relief that it was just the way he had left it.

* * *

Days took on a sort of routine Dorian was used to. He would wake and dress, there would be a breakfast tray brought in by one of the Chargers who would glare at him until he picked through most of it. They were happy to clean up after him with whatever he didn’t eat, especially Dalish, who was slim even for an elf, scarfing down the leavings like she was starving.

He would spend his days in the library, penning contract dispute letters, researching ancient Tevinter, working with Vivienne on her overarching project (whether red lyrium was a type of parasite that inflicted defense mechanisms to avoid ingestion). And he would allow himself to be bullied into dinner at the Herald’s Rest.

“It’s good for you,” Stitches said cheerfully, his wide dark face shining with mirth. “Healer’s orders.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dorian, resigned. He would smile slightly at the cheer of welcome from the other Chargers, and sometimes Varric or Sera, who lived just upstairs. He began to enjoy dinners at the Rest. There were always things to hear about, mostly about what Sera had done to antagonize Cassandra that day, what Dagna was crafting in her basement, and Varric taking suggestions in a little notebook of what to write in filthy sex scenes for his next book. Dorian enjoyed reading the pages of suggestions as it was passed down the table with charcoal. Skinner’s suggestions made him blush.

“Ah, don’t mind her,” said Bull, plucking the paper from his fingers and riffling through it with evident amusement. “It’s all shock value.”

“Says you,” muttered Dalish, and a chorus of jeers and catcalls along with a great deal of breadcrumbs showered her way as she buried an embarrassed face in her hands, and Skinner picked up a knife.

“Settle down, settle down,” said Krem, holding Skinner’s arm easily in one hand. “Give it a rest, you lot.”

They grumblingly abated, though Skinner and Dalish both left the table soon after, Skinner still seething as Varric took the notebook back with a self-satisfied grin.

Dorian’s nights were expanding. He had found out Cullen played chess, and after dinner twice a week he wandered over, the Iron Bull his annoying shadow, to play in the herb garden. Bull had fun antagonizing Morrigan, who had Cullen’s hackles up every other word. Morrigan seemed to genuinely enjoy Bull’s presence, something she certainly did not when Dorian had tried to talk to her. He knew he wasn’t the only mage who didn’t get along with her. He had seen Solas go out of his way to actively avoid her, turning on his heel and leaving the room if he spotted her coming inside. On one memorable occasion, Bull had to sit by Cullen and talk to him absently about training as they all three determinedly not-watched Leliana and Morrigan speaking quietly in the gazebo. They left together, and Bull and Dorian briefly locked eyes before smiling, and continuing chess while Cullen rubbed his forehead in consternation.

At night, Bull kept his promise. He was the only one who watched over Dorian, even as he pushed him a little every day, nudging him along towards trust. The story game was repeated many times, with Bull resting a casual hand on Dorian’s knee (he jumped a few times, to Bull’s amusement), his shoulder, then both his shoulders.

“You know, you’re _supposed_ to be able to set your shoulders down.”

Dorian hunched up under Bull’s hands, running broad thumbs over the outside of Dorian’s robes, then, under the collar, the way he had once. Dorian shivered all over. It was getting very cold.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Try pushing your shoulders down, like if you glued your elbows on the arms of your chair.”

Dorian did so, then winced at the pulling sensation bubbling under the surface of his skin.

“Yeah. See? That’s what I thought.”

“It’s not _my_ fault,” Dorian complained. “It’s from reading.”

“Also because you have approximately zero coping skills venting any of your feelings until you explode.”

Dorian twisted in the armchair to see Bull’s smug half-smile. “Hey!”

Bull dug in a thumb and Dorian hissed.

“How about this, hmm? Take this off, I’ll rub your shoulders. That can be our thing today.”

Dorian paused, swallowing. But Bull hadn’t made any moves towards him, hadn’t made a pass at him. He knew they were toeing the line, but Bull often did unpredictable things, and the previous weeks had at least led up to this much trust.

Dorian pulled his robes up over his head, then sighed when he saw Bull’s soft, pleased expression. “This was a test.”

“Yeah, but you passed.”

“Fuck.”

“Can I still?”

“Well I didn’t get undressed for nothing.”

The Iron Bull tasted his tongue, and grumpily Dorian squirmed sideways in the armchair, slinging his knees over the other arm and leaning back. He jumped at hands on his skin.

“You’re too tight.”

“Now you’re just dropping these lines for fun.”

“A happy accident.” Dorian felt Bull’s hands leave him for a moment and return with lotion. His back prickled up all over from the cold cream. “I didn’t know you’d get goosebumps.”

“That amounts to nothing.”

“No, that was just me observing.”

Dorian blushed, and the Iron Bull chuckled, taking a step closer so that his body heat washed over Dorian’s back. 

He worked in comfortable silence until Dorian was shifting uncomfortably in the armchair, feeling his whole body growing warm.

“Tell me a story,” he begged at last.

The Iron Bull grunted, clearly dragged from thoughts as he traced long tension in Dorian’s neck to the outside ball of his shoulders. Dorian whimpered a small sound in the back of his throat when Bull squeezed.

“What was that?” Dorian couldn’t see Bull’s face, but his voice was threaded with humorous suggestion.

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like something.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe if you’re lucky.”

Dorian laughed reluctantly.

"Have I told you the time about the giant?"

"It's okay. You can tell it again."

“Right. But can you tilt your head back? No, towards me.”

Dorian swallowed against the sudden intimacy. He was leaning over the arm of his chair without a shirt, his head hanging upside down as he stared at Bull’s spectacularly loud trousers.

“You know I think I’ve actually done this?” he said lightly into the slick silence, Bull’s hand at his throat.

“What?”

“Sucked someone’s cock like this.”

The hand stilled, and Dorian grinned, thrilled at the power. “I seem to recall it wasn’t particularly good for either of us. Messy angle. Tight quarters.”

He felt rough hands in his hair and Bull hauled him up into a sitting position, staring down at him with a frown.

“You doing this to be difficult?”

“Difficult?” said Dorian innocently. “What’s difficult?”

“ _Bas saarebas_ , you know perfectly well.”

“Do I?”

The Iron Bull made a sound in his throat and released Dorian’s hair. His hand crept up to it to feel the damage.

“I’ll have you know I work for a long time on-“

His voice died in his throat. Bull was staring at him sprawled sideways in an armchair, lit by the firelight. Without warning, Dorian’s bare skin prickled up in goosebumps, and Bull’s gaze locked on it. Bull was breathing in a way that was familiar to Dorian and sent a thrill up the back of his spine. He tensed in his seat, waiting for the inevitable. Bull would only need to move him a few paces to the bed. Dorian was already half hard from Bull’s hands on his skin. It was cold, he needed –

“Goodnight,” said the Iron Bull abruptly. He turned and left with so little ceremony Dorian was confused.

“Goodnight,” he said, to the slamming door.

He changed for bed with a hiss. He was even harder than he had expected. Checking over his shoulder, Dorian quickly palmed lotion from the pot and moved back to the armchair. He purposefully arranged himself in the same position, spreading his legs over the other arm, tilting his head back as he imagined fingers near his jaw.

The first feeling of his own cold fingers on his skin had him jerking against the fabric of the chair roughly. He had imagined hot hands, and his own were insufficient. Dorian curled the dark crook of his elbow over his eyes to shut out the light as his other hand worked. He knew he shouldn’t fantasize about Bull – that the moment had passed – but it was a guilty pleasure, one stolen in a moment of victory.

He felt his knees squeezing over the arm of the chair. His back was stretching out as he pushed his shoulders over the edge, feeling his hair halo out around his head as he pulled long luxurious strokes, each one making him gasp. He almost lost his balance a moment, had a wild insane fear that Bull would come in and find him replete and flushed on the ground, and the thrill of being caught sent a trickle of precum over his stomach and chest.

It was trickier than he expected to get as close as he wanted. He was in the position he had imagined, he could see Bull’s blazing face staring down at him with unmistakable lust marching through his eye. But then, Bull had left. It made Dorian have to work extra hard to finish. What if he had stayed? What if he had knelt by the chair and hauled Dorian’s knees over his shoulders and took him in his mouth while Dorian thrashed, confined and –

Yes. That had done it.

Dorian panted, feeling the faint pulse in the lower part of his stomach, watching himself deflate. He cast about for a soft face cloth with his hands, dragging one to him with a minor spell. He sponged himself up best he could, pulled up his trousers and then stood, tottering slightly, and walked to the black flecked jug.

When he tried to lift it with shaky hands the weight of it slipped, and it crashed to the floor.

 _Damn,_ Dorian managed to think, before something very big and very solid hit him from behind and he ended up on the ground.

Pain stunned him for a moment, and it took him too long to realize he was face up in the shelter of Bull’s arms, the qunari’s entire body laid over his, propped up on his elbows.

Dorian was very, very glad he had just come, as the space between them was tight and warm.

“What is it?” Bull was asking, his voice distracted as he looked around.

“I dropped the jug,” said Dorian, annoyed and also grateful Bull hadn’t burst in any sooner. 

“You what?”

“I dropped the water jug. It broke.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to let me up?”

The Iron Bull studied his face a moment, and then leaned down with a suspicious glare and sniffed.

“Pardon?” Dorian sputtered. “What do you –“

But he knew what he smelled like. His protestations faded as the Iron Bull grinned his slow, self-satisfied crooked grin. It crept up his face inexorably even as Dorian glared at it.

“Been having fun?”

“Without you?” said Dorian, his voice edged. “Never.”

The Iron Bull made to roll off, but Dorian grabbed the chest harness. “I could help you with that, if you like.”

To his astonishment, Bull blushed, trying to detangle himself from Dorian as gently as possible. There hadn’t been much space between them, and Bull was rock hard against Dorian’s hips.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Dorian let Bull sit back on his heels, but only because holding onto the chest harness pulled him to sitting also.

“I’d like to,” he said calmly. His brain was surprised at this reception. He thought he might stammer, propositioning the Iron Bull. But Bull had seen him at his worst, and now there was no denying what Dorian had just been doing after Bull’s hands had been on his skin, in his hair, staring down the flickers of firelight on the his chest and face, carving shadows in the muscles.

“I can’t,” Bull seemed mildly panicked. “I’m on duty.”

“You can stay standing.”

Bull growled something under his breath, and Dorian smiled sweetly up at him from his position on his knees.

“You’re…”

“Yes. I am.”

Bull scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t.”

“If you sit with the chair facing the door.”

The Iron Bull made another deep sound in his throat, and then to Dorian’s surprise dragged the armchair towards the door and sat, then covered his face with his hands.

“You have to sit up,” Dorian tried tugging at his elbows, to get them off his knees.

“Fuck,” said Bull calmly. “Fuck. I didn’t see this coming.”

“See what?”

“I…I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“I usually am prepared.”

“I have things that – “

“I plan it all out. I initiate. I-“

“Am in control?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “My, how the tables have turned.”

“Shut up.”

“When I can so effectively gloat?” Dorian grinned. “When you’ve been hammering into my life for two months now? Not a chance.” He leaned cheekily against Bull’s knee.

“You _are_ a brat,” said Bull.

Dorian squirmed into the dark space Bull had created between an elbow and a knee. Their faces were inches apart, but Dorian couldn’t help but take the moment to grin up at him.

“Should we try something new?”

The Ion Bull growled and this time he did take Dorian’s face between his hands and pulled him up his body into the chair, kissing him with no regard to the strength or Dorian’s squeak of surprise.

“Maker blight it,” Bull sighed when he let go long enough for Dorian to brace himself with a hand against Bull’s shoulder. “I hadn’t planned this for the next month.”

Dorian smacked him. “You _planned_ this?”

The Iron Bull curled a smile. “Look. We both knew it would happen.”

“Nothing’s happened yet."

“Do you want me to wait? I could come back in a month.”

“Fine. At least come over to the bed. This chair is too small for two.”

“I bet it wasn’t too small a few minutes ago.”

Dorian flushed as he sat on the bed, and then made another surprised huff when the Iron Bull tumbled him easily, with practice, over an arm and began kissing Dorian’s neck so quickly and so well, he felt his hips buck in protest.

The Iron Bull laughed into his skin. “Tell me how you did it.”

“Like you left me,” Dorian said in the sudden silence, the fire crackling. Bull ran a careful finger up Dorian’s bare back, drawing goosebumps. “In the chair, hanging over the side.”

“I would have stayed for that,” murmured Bull.

“You wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t dropped that blighted jug.”

They both looked at the shattered remains.

“I was hoping you were,” said Bull quietly.

“Is that why you left? Because it wasn’t on your timeline?”

“I didn’t want to rush you.”

Dorian smiled, but genuinely this time and kissed Bull’s cheek before he dropped down beside him in the bed on his back, bouncing slightly. “Thank you.”

Bull’s fingers stretched until they found Dorian’s. They lay together, side by side, staring at the ceiling a while.

“I can leave,” Bull offered again. “And we can just know we’re headed in the right direction.”

Dorian turned, his voice open and curious. “Are you scared?”

“Hmm. Not scared. More disappointed. I wanted to take my time with you.”

Dorian shivered even as Bull chuckled in spite of himself.

“I wanted to do something new with you, like I said.”

“Every day?”

“With you? I could do something new every day without even thinking about it.”

Dorian scrunched up his nose. “What does that mean?”

“It means…Maker’s breath, I don’t know. The more I watch you, the more I want to watch you, creepy as that sounds.”

“The more you’re around,” said Dorian after a moment, sliding his hand all the way into Bull’s, “the more I want you around.”

“You doing okay?” Bull asked after a moment.

“Yes.” Dorian had been quiet. “I’m just thinking.”

“Of what?”

“Safewords.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. For _this_ stuff I use the same one. _Katoh._ ”

“Qunlat?”

“All end.”

“Fitting.”

“Wanna use it?”

“Right now?”

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“I haven’t even touched you yet.”

This time it was Iron Bull’s skin that prickled up with goosebumps, making Dorian laugh.

“How do you want me?” he asked Bull.

The Iron Bull’s eye glinted with lust. “I wish I had my gear.”

“Look,” said Dorian practicably, sitting up. “I’ll suck you off now, we can get to it later. One new thing a day, right? This is the new thing today. An unplanned blowjob.”

The Iron Bull grunted a frustrated noise. "But not _me._ "

“Hey,” said Dorian. “You never said the one new thing had to be just for me.”

“This is _not_ how it was going to go.”

“Shut up. Come here.”

“And you’re not supposed to be doing the bossing.”

“Something new every day.”

“All right, fine." The Iron Bull glowered at him as he was pulled to his feet. "But don’t say I’m not flexible.”

Dorian was tugging him back towards the door, then used the flat of his palms to push him back against it. “We’ll see.”

Bull grunted, and then shook his head. “No, wait. I have to face the door.”

“The door is shut. They’re hardly getting through you.”

“I have to.”

“Put your arms up then. We’ll see how strong you really are, supporting yourself.”

Bull grunted again, and Dorian was starting to recognize the sound as being surprised by lust. It made him hiss a smile as he worked his fingers under Bull’s large mantle belt to get the tops of his trousers.

“Fuck, your fingers are freezing.”

“Sorry, I get cold.”

“With a line like that – “

“Yes, yes, you’re very good at seduction,” Dorian said, concentrating more on the laces holding Bull’s pants together than his tone. He jumped when he felt a hand in his hair, tilting his face upwards.

“Just know,” Bull said, his tone friendly. “Everything you say I’ll remember.”

Dorian smiled insouciantly and, without breaking eye contact, reached in and grabbed the Iron Bull, who tried not to jerk beneath his fingers. The wood of the door creaked and Dorian’s smug smile widened. He carefully opened his mouth.

“I’m counting on it,” he said, and then took Bull in his mouth.

Bull’s shoulders slumped towards the door and he righted himself with a quick step in so that Dorian smacked his leg in reminder not to step on him. He pulled back, staring up where Bull was staring down between his elbows. The shadows between them seemed very close.

“How long has it been since someone did something to you, instead of the other way around?”

The Iron Bull began swearing under his breath in Qunlat.

“Yeah,” said Dorian, licking a hot stripe. “That’s what I thought.”

The Iron Bull was thick and heavy on Dorian’s lips, but he hadn’t spent so much time being debauched with his friends as to fail in the endeavor now. He suckled and swirled and sucked. Bull was already hard and close, and he leaned into the wood of the door, his breaths hot and loud in the obscene wet silence.

“I-“ Bull tried to say, but Dorian wasn’t listening. He knew what Bull was saying; he could _feel_ the jerk, the sour taste down the back of his throat.

“Fuck, I –“

Dorian kept pumping even when Bull jerked against him, sloppy enough to drop the act of being in total control as he leaned his forehead into the wooden door and let his knees sag.

“Fuck,” he repeated. “This is _not_ how I wanted it to go.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself,” said Dorian, slightly irritated as he wiped his mouth.

“I’m supposed to take care of _you_.”

“Yes, well, I’m finished. And it’s only one new thing a day.” Dorian bared his teeth, borrowing the not-smile. “I suppose you’ll have to wait for tomorrow.”

“I’m not leaving tonight.”

“No,” said Dorian, quite smugly. “I thought not. You can sit in the chair and keep watch.”

Bull did not take his own armchair, but turned around the one Dorian had laid himself in with a raised eyebrow, slinging one of his knees over the arm, opening his legs in a way that made Dorian roll his eyes. He climbed into his bed and then shivered.

“Still cold?”

“Don’t _smirk._ It’s unbecoming.”

“I becoming.”

“Weak. Very weak. You can do better.”

The Iron Bull left the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. He surprised Dorian by stroking his cheek with the back of a thumb. “Oh, he vowed into the dark. “I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> learning that frustration and anger was a kind of panic was like...mind blowing for me. My friend told me that only a few years ago while I mouthed like a fish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is too long to be one chapter but i didn't want to chop it in half ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it. no more chaptered fics for me. i shouldn't let so many weeks go by between chapters, or like a dumb dumb start a fic in the middle of the largest writing project of my life. it will only be one shots from now on. 
> 
> anyway rate E for not everyone :)

Dorian awoke feeling sweat curling the hairs by his temples. He blinked slowly, the grey before his eyes not receding, and realized he had his bare cheek pressed against Bull’s warm skin. He sat up, his head spinning, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Still on the bed, the Iron Bull pulled his arms over his head.

Dorian sniffed, then blew out a breath. “Did you sleep?”

Bull shrugged.

“That’s not an answer.”

“My job.”

“I slept.”

“Badly.”

Dorian rubbed his eyes again. “I need coffee.”

“Dorian.”

“Hmm?”

“Nightmares?”

“Minor anxieties,” he corrected lightly. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

The Iron Bull grunted and turned on a hip, closing his good eye.

“What are you doing?”

“Dalish will relieve me in a few minutes. I’m going to sleep.”

“In _my_ bed?”

“Mine’s too far away,” said Bull, his half smile creeping up his face.

Dorian stared down at him. “You’re too hot.”

Bull’s smiled widened.

“You know what I mean. I’m all sweat- no, no, don’t even try. I heard it.”

The Iron Bull lifted up an arm commandingly. “Come back to bed.”

“I can’t.”

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“Yes, but this contract for Josephine – “

“Come back to bed.”

“You said you weren’t going to be bossy.”

“It can be one new thing.”

“What?”

“Skipping work.”

“I highly doubt Josephine would approve.”

“You can say you don’t feel well.”

“I feel fine.”

“You _don’t_ feel well.”

“You can’t know that.”

The Iron Bull turned on his back and stretched luxuriously. Dorian tried _very_ hard to keep his eyes on Bull’s face, and not on the way his pectorals were flexing, or the way his wrists were rotating, or the way his toes were curling or –

“You’re staring.”

Dorian refused to blush. “Yes, well, I like what I see.”

“So you’ll come to bed?”

“The contract.”

“Tell Dalish when she comes you don’t feel well.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll skive off too. It’ll be fun.”

“But then,” Dorian said, in mounting tones of horror, “when I do come out, Dalish will _know_ you’ve been in here.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No,” said Dorian, but his voice was uncertain.

“I can stagger it,” said Bull. “I’ll wait for you to leave.”

Dorian inhaled deeply, letting it out through his nostrils. “That’s not fair to you.”

“You’re using that as an excuse not to lay down.”

“I told you, I’m _fine_.”

“You didn’t sleep well.”

“I never sleep well,” Dorian admitted, then paused, annoyed at Iron Bull’s triumphant gleam as he turned onto a hip and stared. “Shut up.”

“You can leave,” yawned Bull, squeezing his eye shut as if he didn’t care that Dorian had turned away, crossing to the dresser to find robes.

“But?” Dorian asked, unwillingly, glancing over his shoulder.

The Iron Bull’s eye was still shut tight. “But that means we’ll do another new thing later,” he said pleasantly.

Dorian’s hands stilled on his socks. Bull, damn him, knew the game he was playing slightly too well. Dorian liked feeling in control. Bull was offering him something known right now versus something unknown later.

He sighed out irritably and crossed to his bedroom door, snapping it open and sticking his head out. Dalish was quietly sitting in the wooden chair.

“Can you tell Josephine I’m sick?” he asked, with the most pathetic sounding cough he could muster. “Tell her I’ll be there tomorrow, and the contract isn’t finished.”

Dalish made a face. “Can’t you just take a healing potion?”

Dorian wished his legs were longer so he could _kick_ the prickling not-sounds of sniggering drifting out behind him.

“Sorry,” he said instead. “Doesn’t work that way.”

Before Dalish could protest she was _not_ a mage, he closed the door and made his way over to the bed to see a smug and happy Iron Bull.

“You’re an insufferable know-it-all.”

“C’mere.”

“No. You’re being absurd.”

“You already took off. Come here.”

“I will kick you if you –“

Dorian yelped as the long arms snaked around his middle and pulled him down into the bed. There was a breathless pause where the air between them was too close and Dorian could instinctively feel the way Bull tasted his own tongue, the squirming friction as Dorian offered to help, the _not yet_.

Bull seemed to feel it too, letting the moment stretch long though the distance between their mouths was short.

Dorian breathed out in exasperation, a hot puff of air over both their faces and kissed him.

It was like kissing the sun. Bull’s skin was burning hot beneath his fingertips. Dorian pulled away, frowning, laying the flat of his palm against Bull’s face as he tried to back up on the bed.

“What?”

“You’re burning up.”

“I run hot.”

“ _Very_ hot.”

“Hey, I can go a lot of –“

“Be quiet,” frowned Dorian, sitting up and putting a hand to Bull’s temple. Bull flinched, then blushed down his torso, forcing himself to say still as Dorian put his other hand to the other side of his head.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?” Bull seemed more panicked.

“I don’t think you’re sick-“

“I don’t get sick.”

“Liar. But you have a fever.”

“I do not.”

“Be quiet and let me concentrate. I’m no great shakes at healing, you know.”

“Should you-“

Dorian moved one hand to Bull’s chest, over his heart, and Bull fell silent, looking nervous. He wasn’t comfortable with magic, but Dorian wasn’t paying that much attention, only filing away the reactions for later contemplation.

He was instead sending tiny filaments of magic through Bull’s bloodstream; he could feel their rushing, moving quickly through his heart, through his wide shoulders, up his neck.

The skin beneath his fingers cooled to a more manageable level, and Bull shivered. “Like an ice bath,” he managed.

“You’re welcome,” said Dorian irritably. “I can’t believe I’m missing work for this.”

“You know I’m _never_ cold,” said Bull, just as grumpy. “And it’s your fault.”

His hands snaked out, but this time Dorian was prepared. He let himself be dragged down, pliant and warm, not realizing he might have overdone the cooling as Bull’s arms pulled him closer to his core, burying a cold nose into Dorian’s neck.

Dorian cleared his throat, then rolled his eyes as Bull chuckled darkly into his shoulder.

“Go to sleep,” Dorian told him, for the first time realizing he wasn’t dressed, didn’t have his hair or mustache gelled, didn’t have makeup on. Bull had seen him at his worst, of course, but… This was different. It wasn’t seeing Dorian at his best or at his worst, but as himself.

But Bull only pulled him more firmly against him, his hand hovering around the hem of Dorian’s shirt until Dorian, huffing in another round of fond exasperation, yanked it up himself so that Bull could place his hand against the warmth of Dorian’s bare skin. He yelped. Bull smiled into his shoulder.

Dorian was a terrible sleeper. It took him an hour to fall asleep on average, his head full of spinning daydreams or wild scenarios. He knew meditation was meant to stop such thoughts, but despite his attempts, he always became sidetracked.

Now, he felt he couldn’t shift restlessly with Bull’s hands on him. Dorian lay stiff and awkward, his skin twitching under the contact. Bull’s breaths became slow and even very quickly to Dorian’s annoyance. Yet when he tried to gently disentangle himself and stand, Bull growled something half asleep and wouldn’t let go.

Dorian sighed deeply, and felt that smug smile against his shoulder. He tried turning over, and this was allowed. He could tell Bull was half-awake by the tensing in his prodigious arms, but they went slack again as Dorian settled, staring at the hatching of scars across Bull’s chest.

It was difficult for Dorian to fall back asleep once he had woken up, and it was quite bright in his room. He didn’t ask for dark velvet drapes as he had back home out of the fear he would sleep in and be late. Everyone in Skyhold rose early, and Dorian forced himself to do the same.

But his dreams had been full of ordinary nightmares. Nothing so terrible as to wake in a cold sweat or be truly scared, but often being chased, or running late, or jump scares from fade rifts he wasn’t expecting. He kept jerking awake all night, checking the window for the position of the moon. More than once Iron Bull, who had stayed awake, quietly told him the time, and to go back to sleep.

Now he sighed irritably, trying to shake the once-again too-warm hand from his shoulder. He only managed to drape it down his back. To get away from it, Dorian inched forward, so that his breath was fanning across Bull’s chest. The scars were almost all grey white beneath his fingers, but there were a few that were ropy and an ugly pink. Dorian forced himself to count them, then closed his eyes and tried to remember their position. He opened his eyes to check, and found Bull had rolled onto his back, leaving Dorian an open path to freedom.

He rolled onto his hip, staring out into the empty room. He _could_ get up. Could still go to work. Could tell Josephine he felt better after all. Could sit in the library and pore over a contract, suggesting amendments or phrases that Tevinter was famous for inserting. He could see Vivienne for tea. Could face another agonizing day of sameness, even if the work was critically important. Or…he could not.

The room was very quiet, and Dorian sighed, moving his legs along the bed and forgetting for a moment he shared it until he found Bull’s feet beneath the sheets. Bull had kicked his boots over the edge. Dorian groaned quietly into his hands. _What was he doing?_ He had sucked the cock of his _bodyguard_. What was _wrong_ with him?

What was wrong with his father? In a rush, Dorian was angry, shifting his weight on the bed, hoping Bull was a deep sleeper, irritable and annoyed he was making life so very difficult from so far away. He wanted to control everything, even his rebellious son. Dorian half wondered if he _was_ dragged back to Tevinter if he could mark himself a slave just for the shame of it. But no, Halward would even compel him to dress the part.

Dorian turned his face into the pillow, hiding the hot prickle in the corners of his eyes. He _hated_ him. And he hated hating him. It made him feel guilty, somehow, that he wasn’t the bigger person or couldn’t love him in spite of it. But his mother wasn’t here, and everything that had made them a family had died fifteen years before with her.

But Maker’s breath, Dorian wanted to go home. He wanted his _own_ featherbed, not this mattress. Not this tiny room with its tiny window. Not a bodyguard and careful eyes, nervous he might _do_ something. Nervous enough to watch him while watching out for him. Trading a prison for a jail.

“Dorian?” His name was more a rumble of sound.

Dorian turned his face quickly to the air, breathing out a long silent breath so his voice wouldn’t rattle wetly. “Yes?” Slightly high, but normal.

“Can’t sleep?”

The lie was graceful, and Dorian accepted it without shame. “No.”

“Do you want to-“

“No,” said Dorian, too quickly, not willing for Iron Bull to finish that sentence. Every way it was finished was bad. “Go back to sleep,” he said lightly. “I’ll get there.”

He waited for the heavy breaths to resume. When they didn’t, he realized with burning shame that Bull had woken from Dorian’s restless shifting. This time, he held perfectly still, only jolting when the heavy hot hand came to rest on his forearm, then slid over his chest and pulled him backwards into the warmth.

He felt his body go boneless and pliant from the heat even while he fought, and some exhaustion must have finally won out over anxiety because he shut his eyes against the sound of Bull’s careful, whispered breaths against his skin and slept.

* * *

It was late morning when he woke, if the sunlight was anything to judge by. Bull was flat on his back, one arm over his belly, the other flung out. Dorian was curled on his side, his back to Bull, tucked under the bar of his arm, and he blinked.

He hadn’t dreamed.

This was unusual enough to give him pause, and he blinked several more times, not even flinching as the arm moved in the bed up and down, found him, and there was a great creaking from the frame as Bull rolled onto a hip and settled his hand on Dorian’s arm. Dorian was growing used to Bull keeping his hand anchored on him while speaking. 

“Morning,” Bull mumbled.

“Morning, it’s almost lunch.”

“Morning for me.”

“That’s right. How many hours have you slept now? Four?”

“Maybe less.”

“Maker, Bull, just…go sleep.”

“I’m good.”

“You haven’t-“

“But it’s enough. In the Qun…they make sure you can get enough.”

Dorian turned onto his back to stare up at Bull’s face. The Iron Bull was propped up on an elbow regarding him. As Dorian stared at the deep shadows beneath Bull’s eyes, his clenched jaw, he had the absurd thought he would kidnap Bull and then force him to sleep until he didn’t need to anymore. The thought was so absurdly like what Bull was doing with Dorian a smile curved up his face.

Bull smiled too. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Dorian, a little shyly. “You surprise me sometimes, is all.”

The Iron Bull was regarding him with a light blue eye ringed in dark. He seemed to understand Dorian was skimming the surface of what the real conversation was, and he used a broad thumb to swipe under Dorian’s cheekbone.

The intimacy brought Dorian’s blood to his cheeks, and Bull chuckled.

“So responsive,” he breathed.

Dorian squirmed out from under his hand, his heart hammering. He sat up and looked down at Bull, ignoring the way the back of his skull was swirling with a tension headache. “Would you like something to eat? I can call for something.”

“Stay here?” Bull raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be straight back to work.”

“Yes, well,” said Dorian uncomfortably. How was he to explain that it seemed _more_ awkward to walk his sick day back halfway through. “I thought maybe I’d cash in.”

“Cash in?”

“Lots of new things. We can do lots of new things today, and then normality for a while.”

The Iron Bull’s face was softening. “Oh,” he said neutrally. “Of course.”

Dorian wanted to kick himself. How had he not predicted this was how it would come across? Best to dose himself with Bull all at once and get rid of him.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Dorian was sticking to his side with a sort of restless idiocy.

“Go where?”

“Out of Skyhold.”

“Boss is out on missions. Doesn’t want you going out.”

“That’s perfectly ridiculous, because I’m going.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Dorian regarded him very coolly. “I’d like to see you stop me.”

Bull paused for a moment, and the threat settled lightly between them, the first dusting of snow. He sighed out a blustery breath and shook his head. “I should have figured you’re well ahead of the curve.”

“What?”

“First the seduction –“

_“Seduction-“_

“And now restless and cooped up.”

“What, have you a timeline of my reactions?”

“Apparently not a good one.”

“And you what, planned the most predictable responses?”

“Wasn’t hard. You hate feeling shut up. I figured we’d get here one way or another. But I didn’t expect it so soon. It’s like you’re escalating all at –“

Bull paused, and Dorian cursed him for being so perceptive. He quickly started to dress, ignoring the inquiring look pointedly.

“Dorian.”

“What?”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s something. A date or something. Something to exacerbate this. It’s not any mail – you haven’t had a letter recently.”

Dorian blinked at him, then turned back to the mirror. His hands were shaking as he applied the kohl under his eyes, and he only dusted at his hair and mustache to force them into the approximation of their usual shape.

“I’m ready,” he announced brightly, not meeting Bull’s stare. “I’ll go out first with Dalish.”

The Iron Bull was still watching him, and Dorian grabbed his staff and slung it over his shoulder, ignoring the way Bull’s hands tightened on his shoulder harness as he shrugged into it.

Dorian burst out of his bedroom door with vim, causing a bored-looking Dalish to startle up out of her chair and follow him briskly down the hall.

“Do you know if I can use the horses?” he asked Dalish. Without waiting for an answer, he took the stairs two at a time down from his room, darted past the fireplace in the great hall, down the broad walk stairs, and to the right towards the stables.

Dalish, as used to Dorian’s routine as he was, was struggling to keep up. “But you’re sick, aren’t you?” She came up to his shoulder, and she was holding her longbow awkwardly over her shoulder to keep it from banging into her knees as she jogged.

“I need fresh air,” announced Dorian, giddy with his freedom. He knew Bull would never let him get so far without him, and the anticipation of Bull breaking in on them turned his stomach with a thrill of dread.

“I can’t let you go,” Dalish said desperately, with a real edge of panic to her voice. Dorian not only outweighed her, but was far more adept at magic than she was. “Chief wouldn’t like it.”

Dorian had reached the stables and was striding through the front of the barn, startling Blackwall, who was carving a griffon at a worktable. He looked annoyed at the interruption. Dorian ignored him and swept down the left, down the long rows and rows of cavalry horses the Inquisition kept.

“Master Dennett,” beamed Dorian, as if they were old friends.

The horsemaster, bent over his work in mucking out a stall, looked up, surprised to be addressed. No recognition crossed his face, and Dorian was satisfied. Good. Dennett didn’t know him.

“We can use the horses for official Inquisition business?” he breezed.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Dalish was almost crying with frustration. She tugged on Dorian’s sleeve, but Dorian only looked at her hand, which she withdrew at once as if scorched.

“The other fellow can get your mounts,” said Dennett, turning his back on the two of them, and Dorian felt his heart sink.

“Other fellow?” frowned Dalish.

“I got him,” said Iron Bull easily, from the mouth of the stables.

“Chief,” said Dalish, with so much gushing relief, Dorian found the grace to feel slightly guilty.

“How did you get here so fast?” Dorian snapped irritably, forgetting to be discreet.

The Iron Bull racheted up his half smile very smugly. “I took a shortcut.”

“Over the parapets, down through the roof,” grunted Blackwall. “Nearly brought the wood in when he landed.”

Dorian glanced back at him, irritated, but shrugged off Dalish as he approached the Iron Bull warily.

“You have mounts for us?”

“Gotta ride the elk. They’re the only ones big enough for me.”

“I-“ began Dorian. He was not a great horseman. He had ridden a horse a few times before his escape from his father, and quickly become used to the grueling pace of riding over months towards Haven. But he had sold the horse, half lame and footsore in the outskirts of Haven, and he hadn’t ridden since.

He regarded the large elk – saddled and bridled – dubiously.

“If I can do it,” Bull said dryly, pulling himself into the saddle with deceptive ease. “You can.”

Dorian sighed, but after hopping a few times he settled into the sloping back with something like ill grace. His elk ignored him, preferring to follow the Iron Bull sedately out of the gates. The guards waved them over the dizzying drop of the bridge. Dorian turned back at the sound of his name he raised a hand against the squint of snow glare to see Cole, who was dangling his legs over a parapet. He waved, and then the Iron Bull egged his mount on, and Dorian watched Skyhold disappear behind them.

The Frostback Mountains_______________________________

Though Dorian had conceived all of this on a whim, he couldn’t deny the beauty of the mountains. They followed the main track where the carts brought them to and from Adaar’s many adventures, but soon Bull had them turning off to a wide sweeping valley. He spurred the elk into a run, and Dorian clung on for dear life, the gait of the elk more loping and pitching than that of a horse.

Dorian didn’t mean to, but he began to laugh. The wind was pushing at his face and he was imagining Vivienne at her tea while he was out in the world being reckless and stupid. They rode for perhaps half an hour before the Iron Bull pulled his elk up short on the plains of the valley. The spot looked no different than anywhere else save for a tiny trickle of snowmelt that formed a creek no wider than Dorian’s hand. Dorian watched Bull dismount, and stared in confusion as Bull held a hand out to him.

“What?”

“Help down?”

There was a moment.

Dorian felt time slow elastically as he saw the corners of Bull’s eyes tighten. He could run, right now. Bull had made a mistake to trust him. He could take his elk and the clothes on his back and he could leave, outpace the trackers.

 _But for how long?_ He argued with himself. With a phylactery they could track him anywhere, for always. For however much blood his father had, a drop at a time.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly instead, swinging his leg over the back of the elk without help. “I’m fine.”

They both heard Bull’s breath empty out of his lungs as Dorian’s feet touched the ground.

“So afraid I’d run?” Dorian said lightly.

“Thought about it,” admitted Bull.

“Me too.”

“Why’d you decide to stay?”

“Because it’d be pointless to run. I’m safer in Skyhold than anywhere else. They’ll always – they’ll – “ Dorian was mortified to hear his own bitter and angry voice warping.

But the Iron Bull did not crowd him. He only backed up, throwing the reins over the neck of the elk to allow them to graze, to mouth at the stream.

“You wanna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Dorian wished his bitterness could be checked.

“What day it is.”

Dorian was silent.

“I figured it had to be that. Do you want me to guess?”

Dorian walked a few paces away, his back turned.

“Could be your dad’s birthday.”

Dorian scoffed. “Like I would care if it was.”

“You would.” The words were measured. Calm. “You would at least think about it.” A pause. “It’s not _your_ birthday?”

“No.”

“No, that’s right, you said yours was in spring.”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, surprised, and Bull gave a small, apologetic shrug.

“The time Varric was talking about Hawke’s birthday out in the mountains. And you said you had never been swimming on your birthday because it was too cold in the spring so far north.”

“Well remembered,” Dorian said acerbically.

“Sorry. Is it…” Bull hesitated.

“No,” said Dorian quietly.

“No,” agreed Bull, breathing out.

“It’s her birthday.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. It’s stupid, I know.”

“You think of her.” This was an observation, not a question.

Dorian refused to look at the Iron Bull, instead gazing off into the middle distance, though there was nothing in the bowl of the valley to see but grass and distant slopes. “Every day.”

“She couldn’t have saved you.”

Dorian turned over his shoulder, frowning. “What?”

“If she was alive. Your dad would have still been a fuck about it.”

“You can’t know that.”

“People don’t change. We pretend they do, but really they just change their reactions to things on the outside, not on the inside. If your dad thinks you’re his reflection to society, it wouldn’t matter if your mother was alive. He’d have just done it in secret.”

“I know.”

“She wouldn’t have saved you.”

“I _know._ ”

“Then why-“

“Because maybe I want to believe someone can, okay?” Dorian asked, blinking very fast and feeling something hot on his cheekbones.

“Okay.” Bull’s voice. So measured.

Dorian hated him for it.

“I wish that none of you had gotten involved,” he snapped bitterly. “That I could go on campaign and just be a person.”

“A person no one knew?”

“You can shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously _shut up_.”

“Okay.”

“Fuck,” said Dorian quietly. Then more quietly still: “Fuck.”

“Dorian?”

“ _What_.”

“You don’t deserve this, you know.”

“I know that.”

“Any of it. The hunting down. The control.”

“I _know_.”

“Because sometimes I get the feeling you do.”

“Do what?”

“Think you deserve it.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. Because you don’t. Deserve to be treated like shit, I mean. To be managed.”

“Maker knows _you’re_ having a hell of a time.”

“Yeah,” said Bull briefly. “It is hell.”

Dorian turned around at that, furious. “You’ve been _lapping this up_ , are you kidding?”

“Maybe at first.”

“ _At first?”_

“When I thought you were a spoiled prince.”

“Did you think that?”

“I thought – hey, this guy’s dad is a dick. He’ll stop after a while. Didn’t think it’d be hard until then.”

“I’ve made it too difficult for you?” Dorian was incredulous. “Don’t stay on _my_ account.”

“That’s just it. On your account.”

Dorian shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He had thought – he had made a move – Bull had – _fuck._

“Dorian, you’re not listening.”

“I should hope not.”

“It’s not fun to – to be your jailer. Your bodyguard. Whatever you want to call it. Because I can tell you hate it. And I hate having to do it. I hate ruining your life and being the source of all your unhappiness.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Dorian scathingly. “Not _all_ my unhappiness.”

The Iron Bull opened his mouth to argue, and his eyes tightened suddenly in warning. Dorian spun. Four Venatori were creeping across the open valley. When they saw they had been spotted, they broke into a run.

Bull leaped for one of the elk, but a spell smacked branching lightning across both elk rumps. The beasts took off, keening out a high wailing scream that stood the hairs on Dorian’s arms on end.

“They’ve been waiting,” Bull said grimly. “For an ambush. How stupid was I to think –“

“I was the one who-“ began Dorian, but suddenly felt prickling at the base of his skull. He tried to finish his sentence, open his eyes wider at Bull who was staring at him in mute horror, but Dorian couldn’t make a sound.

They had come within range.

He tried to fight it, but felt his own hand moving jerkily with trembling palsy towards his staff. His stiff fingers clenched. He picked it up. He finally managed to wrench his gaze back up.

The Iron Bull had taken up his greataxe and was holding it grimly in two hands, regarding Dorian with something like heartbreaking defeat.

Dorian raised his staff, tried to cry out.

The spell didn’t miss. They never did.

Bull took lightning to the shoulder with a grunt, but didn’t go down. Dorian felt a freezing cold hand on the back of his neck piercing through his conscious control of his muscles and jerking them around for another swing. He cheered internally even as Bull’s axe split the staff between his hands down the middle.

Dorian felt his legs twitch. He hoped the fool controlling him might send him bodily at Bull. The Iron Bull could break him in half with hardly any effort, and might still escape.

By the grim look on Bull’s face, he wouldn’t.

Spells shot past Dorian’s shoulder to hit Bull square in the chest, leaving wide burns where the fire struck, shards of ice like knives peppering his skin. Dorian was marched awkwardly to one side as Bull engaged. The Venatori began attacking him three to one, with the puppet master to one side. Dorian made eye contact with her.

 _Jana_. Jana had been his friend, once. They were both hyper-competitive, pleased to make simple card or board games a blood sport. Literally. Now she wielded blood magic with the same hypervigilant control, watching him with narrowed eyes as Dorian tried to fight, jerking his arm up towards Bull from behind.

The Iron Bull had managed to catch the axe in the joint where a mage’s shoulder met his neck and he had gone down in a gurgling heap of blood. The second mage, horrified, had bent down, trying to weave a simple barrier spell to keep him from bleeding out, and Bull had snapped her back with the butt of the axe. 

Now there was one Venatori against Bull, while Dorian watched his own fingers clenching into a fist, drawing magic from the unbroken staff beneath the dead mages. Black lightning was crackling around his fingers. He wanted to scream, to warn Bull, but the bolt left his hand without a sound and pierced up and through Bull’s back to the front like a spear.

The Iron Bull made a horrible gurgling sound and his body crumpled up on itself like a paper bird.

Dorian wanted to make a sound, but Jana turned him to face her instead as she smiled a slow, sadistic, delighted smile. Dorian could see it all at once, in a flash of certainty, she would drag him a footstep at a time to Tevinter knowing he had killed his –

His what?

His bodyguard? Bull was more than that. His friend? Maybe even his best friend.

His –

There was a twitching of fingers from the corner of Dorian’s eye and he pretended not to see. He was very good at pretending not to see. He had pretended not to see countless mistakes and slip ups and blatant stealing from servants over the years. Now he stared at Jana, willing her to keep gloating as the last mage bent down over Bull’s form, a knife in hand.

There was the familiar, sick sound of skin parted by steel, and the mage gurgled, his throat slit ear to ear and drenching the Iron Bull in hot bright splashes of blood. 

Jana had jerked her head up in surprise, leaving a moment of control. Dorian managed one lunging step towards her before she smiled, cat in cream, and turned him on the spot with blinding jerks of white agony so that his fingers twitched and his lungs were bursting for air, black spots swimming before his eyes.

 _No_ , he wanted to tell Jana. _No!_

His own lightning took the Iron Bull full in the chest for a third time, for long enough that there was no sound at all when Bull went down.

The body smoked.

Dorian could feel hot tears drenching his cheeks. _Stupid and conceited_ he railed. To be so cooped up and so willing to walk into their trap.

“Let’s go, Pavus,” said Jana. They were the first words she had spoken to him.

She showed no remorse at all picking through the bodies of her friends. Dorian recognized the first two belatedly. Siblings. It made sense why the sister would have reached to stop her brother’s bleeding. He made his heart a stone as Jana riffled through their pockets and left the rest for the birds.

“Did you like him?” she asked, catching sight of Dorian’s streaking makeup.

He did not speak, only nodded.

“Pity. He fought like a lion. But even a great brute of a qunari,” and she nudged Bull’s body with a booted foot. “He can’t fight magic.”

Dorian tried to lunge at her. She only laughed as he jerked against invisible restraints.

“Let me –“ He hadn’t wanted to speak. To _beg._ Not of her.

She gloated at the victory.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She stared at him strangely, then shrugged, nodding at the body. “Gone soft, have you?”

Dorian knelt by the Iron Bull. He wasn’t breathing. Dorian placed his hand over Bull’s heart and looked up at Jana, willing his face to screw up. Willing the tears to come.

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, just as he jolted a hard volt of electricity straight into Bull’s heart.

Jana jerked him off his feet so fast he didn’t even feel himself hit the ground. Instead there was only screaming, blinding agony as he squinted at the blue sky, twitching and spasming with the pain.

It hadn’t worked.

It hadn’t –

Bull wasn’t breathing.

“Don’t –“ Jana was yelling. “You – _Ever –_ “

A breath.

Dorian realized it wasn’t his own.

“ _You – tired – piece – of –“_

He screamed then, to cover the sounds Bull was making. He screamed for real a second later when the agony ramped up to dangerous levels, blinding him white with the pain when he wanted it to be black, wanted it to go dark.

“ _What the_ – “

The pain stopped, and Dorian squinted his eyes open.

He expected Jana to be dead.

Instead, Bull was breathing heavily, his arms shaking without pause, holding up a mage’s staff.

“You fool,” Jana sneered. “You can’t even use it.”

“He can,” said Bull, his voice a smoky crackle.

“He can’t do anything I won’t let him do,” Jana said, but her voice was uncertain. She pointed her staff at Dorian, and Dorian felt the hand around the back of his neck clamp down, freezing and firm.

The Iron Bull stared at her, then calmly swung the staff towards Dorian.

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Jana, and there was real panic in her voice. “You’d _kill_ him? For what? If you let me take him now, I can pay you. You can walk away. Look at the state you’re in. You couldn’t kill him and then me.”

Dorian knew there were tears sliding unbidden down his face. Bull knew him too well for such a short time. He would rather die than live in his father’s cage.

“Dorian!” Jana had turned to him, wheedling. “Reason with him! It won’t be so bad. You’ve made it out worse than it is, and look how many of our friends died for this!”

“Friends,” Dorian managed the word with a slur like he was drunk. His tongue felt heavy and hard to use. “Sure. _Friends._ ”

“You’re being unreasonable! This isn’t worth dying for! If you would just shut up and pretend like the rest of us, you could be happy!”

“Done…pretending…”

“Dori-“

But Dorian had found the weakening of her iron grip. She had loosened it slightly to let him speak and he cast through the staff Bull held and felt his muscles lock rigid as the electricty hit him. He watched the blue sky overhead. It was exactly the color of Bull’s eye.

And then the blackness crept in.

It came on a bit at a time.

Then he felt at last, his muscles slacken all at once as black slammed into his vision like a dungeon door.

Dorian Pavus died with a smile on his lips.

* * *

Breath in his lungs.

A creeping grey.

“Dorian.”

His name.

His head. _Oh_ his head.

The tension headache from before had blossomed into a real migraine.

Or perhaps dying had done it.

Something was thumping his chest.

Breath in his lungs.

Dorian made a small wheezing noise and the motion stopped.

“B-Bull?”

The Iron Bull lost strength all at once, collapsing next to Dorian in a slump.

“You’re- you’re alive.”

“So it would – “ Dorian gave up. Too difficult by half to talk.

He turned his head to the side. Jana’s glassy eyes stared back at him. Dimly he could see a knife coming out of the back of her neck.

“Your – boot – “ Dorian began.

“She bent over – she – I threw - “

Breathless not laughter. Painful lungs.

Dorian drifted.

“They’re over here!”

Hands on his chest.

A torch in his eye.

When had it grown dark?

He squinted from the light.

His hands were cold.

A scout’s face. Weightlessness.

“Don’t you _ever_ – “ began Vivienne, echoing Jana while holding him aloft like a kitten.

He fainted.

Skyhold _______________________________

The canvas was rough spun and the weave interesting to look at. Dorian blinked after his eyes dried out from staring.

Where was he?

He turned on a hip, or tried to. A wheezing exhale was all he could make before the tentflap was thrust open and a irritable surgeon stuck her head in.

“Don’t move.”

Dorian was tired of people telling him what to do, but acquiesced.

“Your heart is weak. We’ve had to set up spells to strengthen it, and you’re on strict bedrest for at _least_ a week. A month if I have my way.”

Dorian glared at her and she scowled back.

“Be that as it _may_ , the Ambassador has asked me to move you to your own room to be looked after, and I can’t say I’m sorry. We need the beds.”

“B- the – the Iron Bull?”

“He’s alive,” said the surgeon grimly. “His heart took the beating, and his brain stem too. Minor stroke, we think. We have him under for the next week. He’s got a healer that knows how to keep him sedated. No one can move him until one of the mages arrive.”

“Lightn-“ Dorian began.

“Oh yes, we’re aware,” said the surgeon crisply. “No, don’t get up. We have soldiers to carry you.”

Dorian wanted to protest he absolutely did not need to be carried when one of the soldiers ducked in.

Dorian hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Dorian,” said Cullen, who had pulled off his gloves in a semblance of formal visiting. “You’re awake.”

“Don’t-“ began Dorian.

But Cullen only laid a warm hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian had to wipe his face with a hand.

“Come on. I volunteered to carry half of you.”

“Don’t tell me-“ Dorian began, but to his shock, Morrigan ducked in after Cullen.

“Oh don’t worry,” she said cuttingly as he stared at her. “I’m not _carrying_ you. I’m only here to lighten the load for the commander.”

Cullen situated himself at Dorian’s head, gripping the pallet in two hands as Morrigan deigned to wave a hand over Dorian to make his weight more negligible.

“Really, I just came to congratulate you,” Morrigan continued, as if there was nothing at all strange talking down to Dorian from her vantage as she moved confidently backwards and began the uphill climb of the stairs while Cullen panted and sweated, carrying Dorian’s weight.

“Congrat-?”

“Murder-suicide. I’m very impressed.”

Dorian dropped his head back to the pallet with a groan and let himself become insensate from the jostling.

* * *

When he awoke again, he was in his own bed, and the fires were stoked. Krem was sitting in the chair Bull usually took.

"Krem."

"Yeah," said Krem, unusually sober.

"What are you doing here?"

“Sorry,” Krem said, not smiling. “Chief wants in here now. The last try was too close.”

Dorian wanted to say the last try had worked, but instead, he slept.

“Dorian.”

Dorian blinked.

“ _Dorian_.”

He blinked again, fumbling for his own face with a hand and drawing down the blanket.

Adaar was leaning over him, her horns spiraling back from her forehead, her eyebrows drawn together. She had her hands on either side of his head and he flinched, remembering Bull’s reaction as she healed him.

“Inquisitor.” His voice was barely understandable, but at least he finished the entire word.

Wordlessly, Adaar handed him water, which Dorian drank greedily, still flat on his back. He could feel slow seeping strength threading through his veins. It had the wild sharp scent of burning leaves that he associated with Adaar’s magic.

Dorian struggled to sit up, and Adaar gave him a hand, pulling him up and helping him scoot backwards on the bed so she could sit by his leg.

“Bull?” he asked, when he had finished panting.

“He’s up,” said Adaar dryly.

Another thought: “How long?”

“A week at the least. I only arrived last night.”

“I’m sorry.” Dorian could well imagine the briefing Leliana had to give. How she would have had to admit her ignorance of the attack, or Dorian’s own irrational actions. How two members of the Inner Circle had nearly died – had died, the both of them – on her watch.

He needed to buy Leliana something. Many somethings.

“Yes, well,” said Adaar, and then gave up tact. She was blunt by nature, having grown up in mercenary companies. “What the hell did you do?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I asked a question.”

Dorian’s hair prickled. She had used the voice he knew meant she was asking as the Inquisitor.

“It was my fault. I was tired of Bull’s watching. I tried to give him the slip – just for the morning – to go for a ride. He caught me up too late.”

“Oh that’s convincing,” said Adaar acidly. “Because when I asked the Iron Bull, his story was that he convinced you to go for a ride and everything was _his_ fault.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

They stared at each other as Dorian felt creeping heat curl in his face.

“Inquisitor,” he said quietly. “I tried to kill someone under compulsion. I _did_ kill someone. Someone in the circle. I think – I think you were right. That it might be time to –“

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Adaar, as if she had never given it serious thought at all. “If anything, this only provoked your father to show his final hand.”

“What?”

“We received a letter. Or rather, Mother Giselle did.”

“Mother Giselle?”

“The Chantry mother.”

“The _who_ now?"

"The Chantry mother. Giselle. Wears a wimple."

"The _Chantry_ Chantry?" Dorian was incredulous. "You must be joking." This was a new kind of low. Dorian was mildly religious, but it had never played much of a role in his home beyond holidays. For his father to demean – to stoop to involving the Church to paint his cause as just –

He pressed his lips together. “Can I see the letter?”

Unsurprised, Adaar pulled it out of an inside breast pocket. She wore formalized scale mail around Skyhold in a shining gold sweep that complemented her olive grey skin. It chinked quietly as she withdrew the letter and handed it to Dorian.

He tried not to snatch it from her fingers.

The script of the letter was teeth-achingly familiar, in his father’s own hand. It was full of falsehood, but the bare bones were that a retainer “Talbart” would be standing by to meet them in Redcliffe. Dorian didn’t know Talbart personally, but he had been in his father’s circles long enough to hear his name spoken of. It would be like his father to send some poor high-ranking fool on an errand months out of the way. In all likelihood, Talbart would be able to use blood magic, as an extra precaution.

Neither he nor Adaar mentioned it. Instead, she said quietly:

“Redcliffe.” She had been watching him read the letter, frowning over the pleading parts of reuniting a “foolish son” with a “doting father.”

“What?”

“He’s waiting in Redcliffe. At the Gull & Lantern. I assume you’ll want to go.”

“Yes,” said Dorian immediately, not needing to think. “Of course.”

“I’d like to attend.”

Dorian glanced up from the letter, surprised. “What?”

“And I’m sure the Iron Bull won’t let you out of his sight _now.”_

“If only for revenge,” quipped Dorian.

“Dorian,” said Adaar, and it was the way she said his name that made the first drop run the ink on the paper.

The Gull & Lantern, The Hinterlands______________________________________

“The problem with destroying the source,” Solas said, quite unaware that Adaar was glaring at him. “Is that the source is inside of Dorian. If we try to reverse-engineer the phylactery from a drop of blood in a glass plate, we might certainly burn it up from the source.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dorian testily. “Only I don’t _want_ to be burned up.”

“Just so,” said Solas calmly. “But a good idea, nonetheless. I might have to work on that with Vivienne in her red lyrium studies.”

Dorian bared his teeth rather than smiled. Vivienne was going to _hate_ that.

Adaar, Dorian, Solas, and the Iron Bull were traveling by cart to the Hinterlands. Dorian hadn’t been alone with the Iron Bull since –

Well. During the past week, an anxious Josephine had attended Dorian in his bedroom and almost thrown the contract Dorian ventured to apologize for into the fire. He had saved it with a wave of magic while an embarrassed Josephine thanked him, mumbling something about being caught up in the moment.

Vivienne had also come with a full tea spread, and they had skirted the issue of Dorian’s recovery delicately, with only hinted remonstrance and affection.

Of course, Bull had made sure one of his Charger’s was in the room with Dorian night and day, and had even woken in the middle of the night to Stitches prodding him worriedly until Dorian sat straight up in bed and gasped: “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Stitches withdrew his finger. “Just checking if you were breathing. Chief was very specific about that.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dorian had snarled, and pulled the pillow over his head.

Stitches had clawed it away from him, and it had taken Dorian an hour to fall back asleep.

Dorian’s heart had leaped when he saw the Iron Bull for the first time. He was dressed as he always was, in loud obnoxious trousers, a knee brace and a shoulder holster. But when Bull turned to tousle Krem’s hair in goodbye, Dorian saw the bright pink star flowering in the middle of his back where Dorian’s lightning had hit him. He suspected beneath the shoulder holster two more marks would be visible.

“You don’t look so good,” Bull had greeted him cheerfully. “Need a boost to the cart?”

“I’m fine,” Dorian had said automatically, and wished Bull’s face wouldn’t soften quite so much with understanding.

That evening, Dorian nodded at Adaar, who took the lead. He glanced back at Solas and the Iron Bull. “You don’t have to come,” he told them. “I don’t think – this is a public place. It’s not…” he hesitated only briefly. “It’s not his style.”

“Not negotiable,” said the Iron Bull firmly, and Solas merely looked at him mildly until Dorian, sighing in capitulation, followed Adaar into the Gull & Lantern.

Dorian’s hair stood on end. The entire tavern, which should have been bustling with people, was empty.

Adaar was already fanning herself wide as a guard in front of Dorian at the door. Warmth behind him, a hand on his shoulder, and Dorian knew Bull was standing there, waiting to pull him out of the way.

There were loud footsteps clunking down the stairs; someone trying to be heard.

Dorian made a noise in the back of his throat involuntarily. It was the same noise a calf made as it was butchered, a sort of startled squelching.

Halward Pavus himself had come down the stairs, in a ridiculously flashy Chantry get up emblazoned with the sun and wearing a short sea foam green capelet that denoted his magisterium rank. Dorian couldn’t speak, couldn’t warn the others, but it had nothing to do with a vial of blood, and everything to do with the pounding in his ears.

“Dorian.”

Dorian couldn’t speak, only jerked his head.

If they had been home, his father would have been angry at the disrespect, but he had a part to play now.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this. It was the last resort of good men.”

Dorian made another slaughtered sound in his throat.

“ _You’re_ Lord Pavus?” Adaar said, surprised. She straightened to standing, but her hand was still wary resting its grip on her staff.

“Halward, please,” said his father easily. No one, in Dorian’s life, had called him Halward. Not even his mother, for she had called him _Hal._

“We were expecting –“

“Talbart. Yes. I thought Dorian might not come, if I said it was me.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Dorian found his voice, full of venom. Bull’s hand was warm on his shoulder and he could feel his father’s gaze picking it apart.

“Son, I just want you to come home.”

Dorian could feel himself vibrating in place. _Son_. His father had _never_ called him son. He was still trying to formulate something appropriately scathing when his father sighed, appealing to Adaar.

“This is how it has always been.”

Dorian glanced angrily at the Inquisitor. He could feel his breath tight in his chest. He had the same pink flower of lightning on his chest that Bull had. It felt tight as his skin burned beneath him. She wouldn't fall for this, would she? She couldn't possibly be charmed, couldn't think -

Adaar didn’t even look back. She spoke to his father in a calm, measured voice. “He has a right to be angry.”

“Do you even understand-“ began Halward.

“Spare me the details,” snapped Adaar, betraying her temper. Dorian blushed, knowing she remembered the conversation in Josephine’s study.

“I only wish for Dorian to hear me out.”

“Why is it an issue?” Adaar said, even more aggressively. “You don’t need to _wish_ for him to hear you out. You could _make_ him.”

The clink of the vial on the table.

Solas was the one to move forward and pick it up. He looked back at Adaar and nodded.

“Is that all of it?”

Halward Pavus nodded, his face creased and desperate. “Please. Give me a chance.” He turned to Dorian. “Don’t leave it like this.”

“Leave it like this?” Dorian managed. “You were going to scramble my brain to get the son you wanted.”

“I’ve changed, Dorian-“

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Your mother would want us to –“

“ _Shut up_.” Dorian’s voice was incandescent with rage, and he felt the bulk of Iron Bull behind him shifting his grip on a dagger.

“Let’s get you out of here,” said Adaar. She held her hand out for the stained vial from Solas and passed it blindly to Dorian.

He felt a wave of swamping relief when it was back in his possession. He tucked it into a robe pocket.

“Dorian,” said his father, just once more, and this time his voice wasn’t feeble or pleading but sharp.

Dorian almost said goodbye, but liked it better to leave without saying anything at all.

Skyhold_______________________________________________________

“Are you all right?”

Dorian turned from the alcove, looking out of the library window. He was curled in his armchair, a book open on his lap, ostensibly researching.

“What?”

Adaar pressed her lips together. “It’s always blood magic, isn’t it?”

Dorian nodded tiredly.

“I see the Iron Bull is still here.”

Dorian nodded again, not quite looking at Bull. The mercenary captain should have left him alone by now, since the threat had passed. But Bull had only set the Chargers to watching him that night, and had been on the wooden chair outside his room that morning.

Dorian had nothing adequate to say to Bull, to apologize for his actions, so he had said nothing at all.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

“Thank you,” said Dorian.

“Would it have worked, do you think?”

Dorian hesitated, then nodded. “I have no doubt.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” said Adaar lightly.

“Inquisitor?” Dorian had stood without meaning to, following her to the stairs.

She was taller than he was, and her eyes danced as she looked down at him. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” said Dorian again. “You could have sent me away when you first found out.”

“No,” said Adaar after a moment. She had taken a breath to compose herself, her eyes bright with something. “I couldn’t have.”

Dorian nodded her, and she left.

“You’re brave.”

Dorian turned around. The Iron Bull had followed his lead, and hadn’t spoken to Dorian all day, acting instead as his silent shadow. Now he spoke.

“What?”

“The way you handled it. You’re brave.”

“No,” said Dorian miserably. “I’m not. I shot you.”

“And I shot you. Actually _you_ shot you. For me.”

“I’m getting a headache.”

“You already had one.”

“Damn it.”

“Some food might help.”

Dorian couldn’t help the smile at how familiar their banter had grown. “This again?”

“Pretty much. To be honest, you’re handling this better than expected.”

Dorian’s smile faded as he stared at the flowering bright mark on Bull’s back as he turned away, tidying Dorian’s place as they readied to go.

“What must you think of me,” he said quietly to himself. He knew what Bull thought. That Dorian was going to come apart again. That he would hurt himself.

Bull straightened up, leaving the books in a neat pile. He smiled a small, crooked half smile.

“Good things,” he returned.

Dorian felt his cheeks mantle, and followed Bull to the Herald’s Rest for lunch.

* * *

“I’m going to return these,” said Leliana lightly, stopping in front of Dorian’s alcove the next day. He had been watching Bull drill the Chargers on the grounds below, their breath fogging before their faces in the mountain air. It was the first time he had left Dorian alone since his father.

Dorian turned, and his stomach tightened at the extradition papers, only half redacted and crumpled, clearly plucked from his room. He had forgotten.

“That would be best,” Dorian said, matching her tone.

They regarded each other warily.

“It’s snowing,” Leliana broke in delightedly, looking past his head. 

Dorian twisted around and joined her at the window. They stood like children, faces to the glass, watching as the first dusting of snow blanketed Skyhold.

“I love winter, don’t you?” said Leliana. “It’s so beautiful when the snow covers over all our sins. A darkness before spring.”

Dorian swallowed against the tightness in his throat, but then nodded.

“I can’t say we’ve never found you,” Leliana said after a moment. “But I don’t think they’ll pursue this, legally.”

Dorian nodded again. “Thank you,” he said, and left it at that. It went deeper than one conversation, anyway.

Leliana made for the stairs up to her crows.

"A moment," called Dorian. He had rushed to the nearest bowl and tumped the fruit from it. He brought it to her empty while she frowned. Then she gasped, delighted, as the ice flowers settled into a glittering bouquet.

"Crystal grace," said Leliana quietly. She glanced up. "How did you know?"

Dorian quirked a smile. "Would you believe I had the most _interesting_ conversation with Morrigan?"

And pink-cheeked, the spymaster carefully carried her present upstairs.

* * *

No one was on the chair outside of Dorian’s room that night. He pushed the door open to his bedroom with some trepidation.

It was empty.

Relieved to be out from under guard at last, Dorian sank into an armchair by the fire and shivered. He pulled his feet up underneath him and leaned into the side of the wingback. He knew it would be best if he put another log on the fire. If he spread out the papers on his bed. If he kept working.

But he didn’t need to keep up appearances for no one. Bull had given him this, at least, the measure of control in his own room.

Dorian closed his eyes.

He dreamed.

The blue of Bull’s eye.

Then dark.

Then nothing at all.

_“Dorian?”_

Her voice.

Maybe it was real, after all. Maybe there was something...after.

“Dorian?”

Dorian jerked awake to the touch to his forearm. He knew even without looking it was the Iron Bull, who made a habit of holding his hot hand in the same place again and again so that Dorian wouldn’t flinch.

He had still flinched.

“Did you sleep here all night?”

“What?” Dorian cleared his throat, shivering. He glanced out the window in confusion. It was the sort of half grey of dawn.

“Your skin is like ice,” said Bull, staring at the burned down fire. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I was so relieved at your father not being in the picture-“

Dorian flinched again, Bull’s hand still hot on his arm.

“- that I forgot you’re shit at taking care of yourself.”

“Not shit,” said Dorian delicately, uncurling his legs with a wince. “Re-learning.”

Bull smiled, not his crooked half-grin, but a full smile, beaming and proud. It quickly faded as he watched Dorian try to stand unsteadily.

“You’re too cold.”

“The fire went out,” agreed Dorian. “And it’s winter.”

Bull had stacked new wood in the fire, Dorian had noticed, even as the freezing wind came down the flue. He lit it with a thought and the sudden warmth of it made him stagger back.

“Dorian?”

“I’m fine,” he managed.

“No,” said Bull, looking at him. He picked up his hand with exaggerated care and, ignoring Dorian’s flinch, cupped his chin, turning his face side to side. Dorian leaned into the warmth involuntarily, feeling his neck ripple in goosebumps. “You’re not.”

“I’ll –“

“Manage?” asked Bull dryly.

Dorian nodded.

“Do you want me to?”

“To manage?”

“To fix it.”

Dorian, to his mortification, felt his eyes flood with tears. _Stupid. Weak._ He hadn’t even been upset when his father had left, nor the two days following. He hadn’t cried once, only to come apart _now_?

“I’m fine,” he said again.

“Dorian?”

“What?” Waspish.

“How red?”

This took Dorian a second and his mouth twisted on a bitter laugh. “None.” It didn’t sound like a laugh.

“Dorian.”

“Fine. Some.”

“Good.” The Iron Bull dragged his thumb across Dorian’s lower lip so something thrilled up his spine. “You’re learning.”

“Yes,” said Dorian.

“Yes what?”

“Yes,” a pause, and he wet his lips, shivering. “Please fix it. Fix _me_.”

The Iron Bull smiled sadly. “ _Kadan_ , there’s nothing wrong with you. But it's okay. I’ll help you.”

Dorian didn’t know the word in Qunlat. His limited store of vocabulary mostly consisted of inventive swear words. He wanted to ask, but pressed his lips together instead, and nodded once in agreement.

The Iron Bull crossed to Dorian’s bed, running his hands over the sheets and sighing when he found them cold.

“I see you didn’t even make it to bed last night.”

“Hey, you should have seen me in my younger-“

The Iron Bull breathed in deeply, then puffed out a sigh.

Dorian stopped. “You’re angry.”

“Not angry.”

“You seem angry.”

Dorian hesitated a moment, then crossed the room and laid his hand on the Iron Bull’s forearm, where Bull might have laid his hand on Dorian’s arm.

Bull stopped breathing for a moment, then huffed out another breath, shaking his head. “You’re not supposed to take care of me. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t follow the rules very well.”

“Oh,” said Bull pleasantly, his voice suddenly very dark and deep as he flipped back the lapel of Dorian’s collar. “I know.”

Dorian felt his skin prickle up all over in goosebumps as he realized what Bull might intend. Bull read his expressions easily.

“Not while you’re in the red.”

“But-“

“Sorry. Get changed.”

“Changed?”

“For bed.”

“But it’s morning?”

“It’s dawn, and you slept in a chair.”

“I’m fi-“

“Shut up and take off your clothes.”

Dorian shut up, and took off his clothes.

He dressed for bed behind the screen, trying not to hear the sound of Bull’s knee brace hitting the floor. He felt something tight in his chest, and his muscles were screaming at him for how he had curled in the chair. He felt wobbly, and his vision suddenly went out of focus, focusing instead on the dust motes in the stone floor. The threads of the robe he had on. The reflection in the glass.

“Bull,” he tried to keep his voice neutral, but the Iron Bull was there at once, his warm hand settling on the back of Dorian’s neck, anchoring him and washing him in heat.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. My eyes – “

“Hyper-focus?”

Dorian worked that out in his head. “Yeah.”

“You’re fine. You used pain before, as a measure of control?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to use it now?”

Dorian nodded, already heating his fingers but to his surprise Bull only rubbed hard circles into his neck and he hissed in pain, hunching up. His vision abruptly snapped back to normal and he turned over his shoulder to glare.

“Ouch.”

“What? You’re the one who gets your shoulders like this. I told you that you need more neck massages.”

"Of course," muttered Dorian irritably.

The Iron Bull was smiling slightly as he drew Dorian to the bed. “You’re still too cold. If you let me – “

“You’ll warm me up?” Dorian was surprised how twisted he could make those words.

Bull leaned his jaw into Dorian’s temple and murmured against his head. The intimacy made Dorian shiver. “Maybe later.”

Dorian allowed himself to be folded into bed and was grateful when Bull slid in next to him. Despite having slept in the same bed once before, Dorian realized Bull had no intention of falling asleep until he did.

He frowned. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” said Bull, unswayed. “Now go to sleep.”

“I said-“

“I heard what you said.” Bull turned on a hip and his eye flicked over Dorian’s face, reading the lines, the way he held the tension. Dorian couldn't tear his gaze away from the two overlapping starburst burns on Bull's shoulder, one just over his heart. “Like _I_ said, I’m here to help fix it. There’s no way I’m going to listen to you in the red.”

“And how can you tell when it’s over?” Dorian challenged, his heart picking up in doubletime.

“Because,” said Bull, smiling almost sadly. “Then you’ll actually smile.”

Dorian gave him a very large, very false smile, but Bull didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he raised a hand gently to Dorian’s face and stroked a broad thumb from Dorian’s temple to the soft pulse point beneath his jaw.

“And your heart will slow down.”

Dorian felt his eyes prick with another round of sudden tears, and he frowned against them.

“ _Kadan_ , it’s okay.”

Dorian shook his head. “I’m fine.”

But Bull’s thumb was still stroking down the side of his neck and Dorian realized all at once it was _over._ He had _won._ Then why… why didn’t it feel like winning?

His father, for all his Chantry-inspired getup, had looked very ill. Papery and sick. Dorian knew he shouldn’t care if his father died but –

 _You can never go home again_ , his mind whispered, and though he had known it, tears started to his eyes again.

“Dorian. Dorian, it’s okay.”

He knew Bull was trying to distract him and he closed his eyes, wrinkling his eyebrows. He would not cry. He _could_ not. Not after what Bull had seen in the Gull & Lantern. Not when Dorian had held up like a hero these past two days. Surely he couldn’t be as weak as that.

Unbidden, a memory of the Iron Bull: _it’s the shock._

“No,” Dorian explained, opening his eyes, and Bull’s thumb was at the corner of his eye, wiping careful smudges back and forth. There was something wet on Dorian’s skin.

 _“No,_ ” he tried again.

The Iron Bull was silent, watching Dorian, and Dorian wanted him to shut his eye to look away and all at once something hot and horrible that had been burning in Dorian’s chest and keeping him sealed like heat at the cracks came out of him.

He was crying, and it was _awful_.

He was sobbing like a child, hiding his face in his hands even as he could feel Bull pulling him closer, one hand rubbing instead circles into his hair, the other a present, heavy weight on his upper arm that made Dorian feel worse instead of better.

“I’m sorry-“ he tried to explain.

“Dorian, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. Maker’s ass, I’m sorry too.”

Dorian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so he did both. He kept waiting to stop crying, distantly mortified at his own actions, but every time he wound down, petering out into a few hiccuping sobs he thought of a fresh tragedy.

He would never see his room again. And what was it? Only things. And yet those things – he would never hold his mother’s headscarf, smell her lingering perfume. He would never have his favorite pillow, round and tube shaped. He would never again see the kitchens on a sunny morning, smelling the seared rice and beans. He would never speak his own tongue as his first. He would never go to the play houses. He would never walk the streets of his hometown. He would never go _home._

_You can never go home again._

He would never visit his mother’s grave. Never pick jasmine to place there. Never stare out the window at the wide world as he read and wonder what it was like.

It was like this: the first snow on the ground, washing his past clean like someone else’s life.

He didn’t know when it was over, only that he became gradually aware of a hand in his hair, his dull gaze on the hatching of scars on Bull’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he offered again. The tears dripped pointlessly out of tired and swollen eyes.

“There’s nothing to-“

“I’m sorry you had to see.”

“I’m not.”

This brought Dorian’s unwilling gaze up. “What?” The soft, secret space between their mouths, the way Iron Bull’s head was tilted down, trying to catch some of Dorian’s expression.

“You needed a safe space, and I butted in. And yet – “

“Here you are.”

“Yeah. Here I am. If you want me.”

Dorian couldn’t manage words. He only nodded and inched closer on the bed, closing his eyes. The Iron Bull was so very warm. It was a lapping heat, cresting over his shivering skin in waves. Iron Bull pulled him closer so that Dorian could feel his own breath fanning back hot against his face.

There was a hand in his hair.

It reminded him of someone.

Hot eyes. Wet cheeks.

But safety? On that, he could at least agree.

And so Dorian, formerly of house Pavus, slept.

* * *

When Dorian awoke, the room was cool again, and he could see ice patterning over the small window overlooking the garden. He rolled onto his back and collided with the Iron Bull.

“Sorry,” grunted Bull, who was still mostly asleep.

Dorian sat up. Iron Bull’s hand was hot on his arm and fell down from his shoulder to the crook of his elbow. Carefully, Dorian removed it and placed it on the bed as he hopped from one freezing foot to another, crossing quickly to the small rug which was all he could afford in front of the fireplace.

He built up the fire with logs, stoking the embers with magic. He peered out the window, which was nearly wholly obscured with frost. There were a few inches of snow on the grounds of the herb garden, hardly enough to make more than a tiny snowman, but Sera was industriously trying. She was using the carrot in predictable ways.

“What time is it?”

Dorian turned. “I don’t know.”

“Did it snow?”

Dorian nodded. “Go back to sleep. You need it.”

“Come back to bed.”

This time Dorian went willingly, pressing his feet against the Iron Bull’s legs while Bull huffed a laugh. Dorian pressed his freezing hands to Bull’s torso and made him jump.

“Oh so that’s how it is?” Dorian asked angelically.

“No way,” said Bull. “It’s _my_ turn. The seduction I planned.”

“You’ve technically already gotten me in bed, quite easily I might add.”

“Yeah,” said Bull, his eyes flicking around Dorian’s face. Dorian realized that Bull’s thumb had skimmed the hollow of his throat.

“Any red?”

“Not with the snow fresh,” said Dorian lightly, and they both heard his meaning.

“You sore?”

“You wouldn’t believe.”

“Hey,” Bull smiled suggestively.

“From the _chair_.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.”

“You’ll have to out-compete furniture. If you’re up for that.”

Then the Iron Bull kissed him, the first kiss he had ever initiated, and Dorian forgot how to speak. The man could do things with his tongue which were probably illegal in such a prurient kingdom like Fereldan.

“This time,” Bull said quietly. “I’m not going to test your limits. I’m not going to be reckless.”

“I should hardly think you’d toss me off a wall _twice.”_

“I promise I’ll never make the same mistake twice. We can start slow.”

“I-“ Dorian was going to protest not _too_ slowly, but Bull had pulled up the hem of Dorian’s shirt and was skimming his still sleep-warmed torso, skating his thumbs over Dorian’s nipples with a hard press.

Dorian coughed.

The Iron Bull smiled. “Remember what we talked about?”

“Probably not.”

“That you can’t let yourself get hurt rather than speak up. Not for twisted ankles. Not for tossing off a wall. Not for pride. You get me?”

“Another safeword?” asked Dorian dryly.

“Yeah. _Katoh.”_

Dorian nodded.

“Say it for me, once, in practice.”

“ _Katoh._ ”

“That’s good.”

“Kiss me, you fool.”

Bull complied, then pulled away, his crooked smile ratcheting up half of his face. “I think I’m still guarding you actually.”

“Are you now?”

“From yourself.”

“My worst instincts.”

“If that’s okay.”

Dorian pretended to think about it, a thrill up his spine. The idea that Bull had seen him as his best – as his worst – as himself – and _wanted_ to be with Dorian…

“Oh, I suppose,” he said diffidently.

“You know how we were making a safe place for your anxiety?”

“Yes.”

“And how you said you didn’t get all of your anxiety out of you?”

“I suppose this calls for a crude entendre.”

“Not quite. But yeah. I’m not going to let you pack it away anymore. We’ll have to find _some_ way to exercise it out.”

“In the safe space of this room?” Dorian guessed dryly.

“Now you’re getting it,” beamed Bull.

“This seduction has more strategy than the War Table.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“ _Ebasit_ _parshaara_.”

“What?”

“It’s enough.”

Dorian paused. He wondered how long it had been since the Iron Bull had been able to speak Qunlat as his first language. If he missed Par Vollen. He stroked Bull’s chest with a feather light touch. Bull looked down in surprise, taking to the shift in Dorian’s dry mood immediately.

“What is it?”

“I think,” Dorian said slowly, “that I was so busy thinking I was too stubborn for you that I forgot you’re much more patient than I am.”

The Iron Bull smiled slow and warm. The smile was more than a little smug.

“Fuck,” said Dorian calmly.

“Yeah,” chuckled Bull. “That’s what I’m going for. And you’re right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

The Iron Bull pulled Dorian over his stomach and turned on a hip to kiss him, pinning him down with his left arm. He pulled away enough to lick a hot stripe down Dorian’s bare torso that had him writhing in the sheets.

“I’m _very_ patient.”

Dorian wriggled out of his own trousers, taking one of Bull's hands between his own and moving it towards his belly, then down one thigh. When Bull took him in hand, Dorian's breath stuttered before Bull’s lips crashed into his own, working him with a frenzy that had Dorian’s hips stretching before Bull was even undressed. Dorian flipped over in bed in annoyance, crawling up the bed between Bull’s legs. Dorian plastered himself chest to chest, running his tongue over the swell and curve of muscles as Bull smiled indulgently at him.

"Take off your pants," Dorian snapped.

The Iron Bull only moved when Dorian made his fingertips like ice and poked him. Bull frowned at the prodding, and Dorian, delighted, grinned.

"We're going to have to work with that," Bull said.

"Take off your damn pants."

Bull took off his pants, and Dorian paused to rest his forehead against the bright flowering scar of Bull's chest at the sight.

To his surprise, the Iron Bull did not make a crude remark. Instead, he stroked Dorian's own lightning burn. His was just where Bull's was. Matching marks for the price Dorian had paid for his freedom.

He lost his voice when Bull looked at him, but didn't have to speak. Bull only nodded, then pulled him up his body to kiss him.

When he tired of Dorian’s tongue, the Iron Bull cast around in the bed for his discarded trousers, digging his fingers into the pockets.

“Came prepared?” Dorian asked dryly.

Bull shrugged, unstoppering the small vial of oil. “I like to be.”

The oil smelled sweet and spiced, like cinnamon and cloves. Bull ran his hands over Dorian’s ass as he tried to buck, to twist, to make the Iron Bull take his cock in hand to give it the attention it deserved, but Bull’s other arm was like iron over his twisting back.

“Spread your legs. Over my hips.”

The instruction made Dorian drop his face, panting, into the crook of Bull’s neck. He still complied.

“Good,” Iron Bull kissed Dorian on the temple, licking the inside shell of his ear as Dorian shivered. Bull’s other hand traced the curve of his cheeks to the split, and then dipped a thumb down and in as Dorian jerked against Bull’s skin, sweat standing out on his own.

“B-Bull.”

Iron Bull stilled at once, his face peering into Dorian’s. “Too much?”

“No, you – you fuck. Not _enough_.”

The Iron Bull sucked on his bottom lip in his best crooked grin and made Dorian wait for it, teasing him open slowly before finally inserting his longest finger while Dorian keened into Bull’s neck. When Bull was silent for a moment, Dorian wriggled his own hips for stimulation.

“ _Please_.”

Bull seemed to remember himself. “Scoot down. Just – yeah. Like that. And don’t move.”

Dorian held perfectly still as Bull moved his other arm, taking the both of them in his free hand while he gently skated against the round smooth surface of Dorian’s prostate, working his thumb into the soft skin just beneath Dorian's sac. Then Bull’s hands were moving independently of one another and Dorian’s hips couldn’t decide whether to back into one of Bull’s hands or press forward into the other.

There was only them, their breath ragged, Dorian’s arms trembling so hard he had half collapsed against Bull’s chest, his body spasming beneath Bull’s hands. Sweat was pouring down their skin and Dorian could taste it salty on his tongue. The velvet feel of Bull against him, his calloused fingers as he held them both easily in one large hand.

It seemed impossible that it was winter, or that he was alone, or that anything existed outside of Bull’s fingers, this room.

He whimpered, only once, just before the end came. Bull had begun concentrating all his effort on the inside of Dorian, directly in contrast to what he wanted. Dorian was chasing the contact with his breath held, teeth clenched, eyes shut.

“ _Kadan_.”

Unwillingly, Dorian opened his eyes.

“Can you let your shoulders down?”

The request was so strange, so unexpected, that Dorian huffed out a short laugh and Bull pressed harder into him than he ever had so that Dorian jerked against it and Bull was pulling, stroking, pulling and –

He groaned into Bull’s skin, feeling the hot stickiness between them.

“Give me,” he managed.

“No, it’s –“ Bull began, but Dorian had taken Bull in both hands, not even bothering to do more than half turn on his side against Bull’s chest. He was pulling him none too gently hand over hand, his fingers delicate and quick around the glans as Bull hissed a long curse between his teeth. Abruptly a hand yanked Dorian’s hair up, the other pulling a long finger up Dorian’s throat.

Dorian stared straight back, brazenly, but couldn’t help but swallow against the feeling.

Bull jerked in his hand and came silently, only groaning as he ended, letting his breath out in small hisses and gasps.

Dorian, smiling smugly, pressed on the base of Bull’s belly as Bull jerked and writhed against the contact, coming in another slow sticky wave as Dorian hauled himself bodily upwards.

“Well done,” he murmured against the stubble at the Iron Bull’s jaw, a quick kiss before he flipped on his back, his stomach heaving in and out.

“You’re…” Bull paused, taking in air.

“Not quite the debutante you expected?” Dorian was borrowing the half grin, and he knew it was _very_ smug.

“I’ll have to watch my back around you,” murmured Bull, dropping into a haze.

“Don’t worry,” said Dorian, kissing the bright flowering scar on Bull's shoulder. Drifting for a while sounded divine. “I’ll guard it.”

The Iron Bull managed a very dry chuckle. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” quipped Dorian.

“You know what I mean. To Skyhold. To where I could meet you.”

Dorian turned on a hip and smiled hesitantly. “Yes,” he said, testing the words on his tongue for the truth of them. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> but i will say all of your lovely comments and your kind words motivated me to finish, so thank you <3 hopefully inspiration for the next fic will sleet in soon


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